You'll be the Arrow

Oliver tried not to smile. He wasn't averse to it, especially not these days: the smiles and quips were as much a part of the Green Arrow as the arrows in his quiver. But that was a different smile. Smug. Friendly. Reassuring. Whatever the situation, whatever the victim or the perpetrator demanded. Gone was the ruthless mockery of justice that there had once been, abandoned when Vengeance had been torn from him. This new Oliver, this new Arrow, sought to protect, to reassure, to inspire. The Green Arrow inspired hope; he inspired unity; he inspired a sense of civic responsibility. He had made the streets of Star City safe again, but he'd also helped his city become somewhere that people could be proud of. His arrow, his symbol, adorned signs, t-shirts, scrawled graffiti messages of solidarity. He was no Son of Krypton, granted; but not everyone wanted to come like some godly mountain of muscle descending from the skies. He was Robin Hood, and that was no accident: not because he stole from the rich, but because he gave to the poor; a mission statement to look out for the little guy, in a world where so few ever did.

This, though? This was a different smile. This was a satisfied smile, a contented smile. This was the smile of a man hurtling down the streets of Gotham City, shop fronts and street lights streaking past the windows of the Arrowcar, the strange near-silent whir of high tech electric propulsion echoing back from the towering walls of Gotham's canyons. This was a smile that became harder and harder to resist, every time he glimpsed the crimson occupant of the seat beside him from the corner of his eye. This wasn't a Green Arrow smile. This wasn't merely an Oliver Queen smile. This was a dad smile; and his efforts to conceal it weren't because of shame, or reluctance, but merely a concession to his daughter, and an effort to spare her from straining herself from rolling her eyes too hard.

His resistance survived about another block and a half before the smile changed tactics, a lopsided grin managing to force it's way through. His eyes glanced up, his emerald-wreathed gaze catching a glimpse of Mia's scarlet-wreathed counterpart.

"I'm glad you came."

That too was a concession, restraint for her sake. It wasn't a confession that he missed her, both in the field and out of it. It wasn't an admission that he'd found himself humming along to the absent sound of Mia's latest music fascination, a background ambiance that he griped and grumbled about. It didn't express the hollow feeling every time one of his quips or puns went unacknowledged - to him, Mia's groans were as valuable and viable a response as laughter, and infinitely better than the silence he currently endured in their wake. It didn't mention the deeper, more complicated thoughts and emotions that had followed him to Gotham, either: perhaps it was harder to keep those concerns at bay when he didn't have his kids around to stay strong for; or perhaps it was just that he was simply stronger with them by his side.

It didn't touch on the most complicated part of it all, either: the rabbit hole of we need to talk that was Connor Kent. But that was a conversation for another time; definitely not now. Now was a time for dad smiles, and Oliver was determined to cling to that as long as possible.

"No one in Gotham thinks I'm funny. It sucks."

It was odd to have a dad. Not that she was unused to the idea, after all being born somewhat conditioned a person to having a genetic donor that marked themselves as such. But she had known that man and that one, when phrased in kinder terms, was a downright fucking bastard. That man, however, as much as genetic father as he had a right to be, wasn't Dad. That term had come much much later on in the girl's life. Teenage years, in fact. Funny that - It had taken her a childhood lifetime to come to know the man who would actually be considered a role model and the person that Mia Dearden-Queen would ever ever consider willingly claiming as her paternal counterpart.

Not that that was what they were right now. Sure, Oliver - Green Arrow - was Dad. But right now, she was Red Arrow - Speedy when she felt properly eye-rolly and weaksauce. That meant that she wasn't herself but more herself. It was hard to explain, really. It was like shrugging off a heavy coat since underneath you were definitely still yourself but different. Lighter. Green Arrow was still Dad, which made sidekick - Seriously?? Wasn't partner a better term? - business all the more amusing in a way. After all, how many vigilante heroes got to say they were honestly running in the family business nowadays?

Not that she was the first. Roy had that honor. Arsenal. But she was Red Arrow. A direct counterpart to Oliver's persona. You could make all the arguments you wanted that could try and disprove her position but at the end of the day Mia was right were she belonged, and this was a painfully long time coming.

Besides, no one else got the damn Dad jokes from the Green Arrow like she did, so There. That was the proof positive of what and who she was. Daughter, partner, protege, sidekick, shit-giver.

The rather unremarkable eyes that sat behind the red mask shifted from the passing streets to glance towards the super hero who had spoken and the Red Arrow cracked a smile - just half a one, no use in letting the old man win entirely.

"Huh, guess the average intelligence is higher here than back home, then."

Her straight forward gaze shifted as her head turned to face her father - the man deserving that title, at least. What crossed her lips then was perhaps one of the universe's single best self satisfied grins ever seen, even if only one witness ever got to see it. It was brief, it was fleeting, but it spoke miles of missed time and space before it vanished entirely.

"Good thing I came, then." The words slipped and followed from the near-adult's lips with a wink before any sort of retort could be made that would ruin the flow.

Hey, at least she hadn't tried to take over the radio to avoid conversation.

Average intelligencee, my ass.

It rankled him on many levels, just like it was supposed to. It was a small victory - the accidental admission that people back in Star City actually did find him funny - wrapped in the insinuation that you'd have to be stupid to find him amusing, and adorned with the accusation that the people of Star City were somehow inferior to the citizens of Gotham. That last part wounded him more than the subtle attack on his humour. Mock Oliver Queen all you want; he'd probably just shrug and agree with you most of the time. Mock his city, though? That was where the problems started.

Oliver refused to give her the satisfaction of letting Mia see his hackles get riled up. Instead he focused on the sentiment she's closed with - that it was a good thing she'd come - and how utterly he agreed with it. Back in Star City, the tabloids called them Team Arrow, but to Oliver they were family, and he'd been afraid to admit to himself just how much he missed them; just how incomplete he felt without them around. Not that he was going to start admitting it now, either - not to himself, and definitely not to Mia - but there was no denying the sense of calm, comfort, confidence, and certainty that descended over him. It wasn't overconfidence, and it wasn't complacency: it was just the reassuring knowledge that, as awesome as he was capable of being on his own, he could be infinitely more so with a Speedy at his side.

Red Arrow.

That still caught him out from time to time: the sobriquet that Mia had chosen for herself. Oliver couldn't entirely recall where the nickname Speedy had come from, but both Roy and Mia had began that way in his eyes, before they chose - and earned - an identity for themselves. Roy had chosen Arsenal, and while he'd never been completely upfront with his reasons, Oliver had his theories - and they had little or nothing to do with his son's ill-placed fondness for British soccer. It fit with his personality too, and his aspirations: not just an arrow, but something bigger, better, more encompassing. Mia on the other hand had chosen Red Arrow - like him, but different. Maybe to her it was just a case of being equivalent, a name that emphasised the way she sought to be a partner and an equal, avoiding the ever-dreaded sidekick terminology. To Oliver though, he couldn't stop himself froom secretly hoping that on some level, his kid was just trying to be more like her old man; and that hit him in the warm and sentimentals - though not nearly as hard as when he remembered the way she'd asked if it would be okay for her to legally change her name to Dearden-Queen.

You weren't supposed to have favourites when it came to your kids, and Oliver didn't - not really. That said, Roy was Roy, and Mia was, well. Mia was daddy's little girl, a fact she was all too willing to exploit for all it was worth; and Oliver was all too willing to let her.

"It's a good thing that someone dumb enough to find me funny is here, you mean?" Oliver shot back, unable to resist the target that Mia had inadvertantly painted on herself.

"Well yeah," She brushed off the comment, leaving the Dad-insult on it's clear path until... "Why else do you think Roy's around?"

Okay, so not the best phrased but it still blew the shot off target enough to feel satisfying. Not that Mia hadn't been tempted to let him have this one, but that was a bit of a slippery slope when it came to the Green Arrow. Let him have just one win, one advantage, and he'd find ways upon ways to exploit that and detect all sorts of new opportunities to best his opponent. All well and good for some creep they were taking out together, but not something that Mia wanted aimed in her direction.

"So," Another deflection to avoid allowing for retaliation. "How's Gotham been? Heard they have all sorts of weirdos here to try and keep under control. Is it true that there's a guy here who uses kites as weapons? So frikin weird."

"Hey," Oliver shot back defensively. "You leave Chuck alone. Poor guy's doing the best he can."

It was a deflection, a stall tactic concealed behind a veil of humour, buying him a few extra moments to contemplate the question that Mia had asked.

"It can't be easy figuring out how to be cool in a city whose main vigilante is a dude in bat-themed pyjamas and a cape."

He fought the urge to let his brow furrow; the mask helped with that, a familiar and reassuring pressure across his nose and eyes that always offered a gentle resistance to any errant facial expressions. It was something they didn't tell you in vigilante school: such masks were all about concealing identities, disguising the more recognisable features of a person's face, obfuscating the brow and the bridge to give facial recognition a harder time piecing together a viable match if a security camera ever managed to capture an errant glimpse. They didn't tell you that the tactile sensation of the mask provided a constant reminder, hiding who you were so that you had the chance to be who you chose to be. Oliver knew how a smile felt beneath that mask, his cheeks craving the slight tug and friction one generated, right from the very second he put it on. It was like glasses, in a metaphorical sense: through the cutouts in the synthetic fabric that Oliver couldn't even begin to pronounce, the world looked clearer, and he felt more focused.

What wasn't clear was how to answer Mia's inquiry. It was conversational, not meant to be some probing exploration into his emotional state; and yet it was hard to answer without some of that spilling over. Gotham had been confusing, frustrating, exhillerating, and lonely. He felt like an outsider, encroaching into territory where he wasn't wanted or welcome, saving a city that it wasn't his duty to save. Yet, he felt needed here, one more small barrier helping to hold back the tide that one man in a bat-suit couldn't overcome alone. It wasn't just the Queen Consolidated investigation that urged him to stay: this wasn't Sherwood, but the people here damn well seemed like they could do with a Robin Hood or two.

"Gotham's been -" He faltered a little, mid-sentence. "- fine. Not great, but not terrible. The investigation is nothing but dead ends, and the streets are, well -"

He trailed off, tossing a quick smile in Mia's direction.

"Batman doesn't have his shit together the way we do back in Star City. There's a whole lot of faces that need an expediated arrow delivery, and to be honest it feels like trying to turn away the tide. Sometimes you feel like it's working; but then the moon does it's moon thing, and all of a sudden it's back to the way it was before."

He let out a small sigh, casually shifting lanes so that the Arrowcar would whoosh past a group of drunk teens halfway spilling out of the sunroof of a parked limo.

"I did meet Superman's cousin though," he conceded, rummaging around for silver linings. "Oh, and Flash Boy, or whatever he's called. Seems like I'm not the only vigilante having a cheeky vacay in Gotham."

"Well, then it's a good thing we're here to show them how to do it right." A self-satisfied grin was allowed before Mia settled back in her seat and let a small scoff leave her. "Amateurs."

When it came to vigilantes in other cities, Mia often was pleasantly unaware. Not uneducated, Ollie made sure that was never the case, but more of alack of wanting to know much about them. They weren't in her city, they weren't her problem. Especially when it came to any of them that actually hit the mark of filling the whole Super in Super Hero thing. People with powers, whether by freak accident or alien physiology just seemed to have no real good excuse for not simply fixing everything. She was sure there was a multitude of reasons as to why Superman hadn't managed to actually achieve full on World Peace yet, but Mia never really could figure out any good reasons. Sure sure, with great power comes great whatever, but what good were having all these wonderful abilities if you did jack all with them? Star City was a shining example of what could be, and it hadn't taken anything but regular good old human effort to make that happen. Slackers.

Superman's cousin. Flash's protege. Well, with the Arrows around maybe there would at least be some hope for the next generation.

"We'll put things in order, just like we always do. And then we can go home, back to where it's quiet... And boring."

"Boring?"

Oliver injected just the right amount of shock and outrage into his voice at the slight against His City. He understood the sentiment - Star City was a far cry from the villain-fighting shenanigans of Gotham, and Team Arrow had helped keep crime at bay just long enough for the Star City Police Department to ready and renew itself. Nowadays, the SCPD did most of the heavy lifting, and Team Arrow was there to remind anyone exceptional why Star City was more hastle than it was worth. Confidence in his children aside, that was why Oliver had been willing to leave Star City in the hands of Roy and Mia when he came here - because it was safe; relatively speaking, at least. A small kernel of guilt twisted in his stomach. Because it was boring.

It didn't surprise him that Mia wanted more of a thrill than her current circumstances were providing. It was in her nature to seek action and adventure; but more than that, deeper than that, her motivation for becoming Red Arrow were born from a desire to rebel against her condition, and use her life to make the world a better place. For all Oliver's desire to keep her safe, and away from danger, by doing so he was betraying the spirit of the promise he'd made to her back in their first days together. Fatherhood was all about breaking promises for the greater good, that lesson Oliver had thorougly learned from his own father and from his experiences with Roy and Mia; but that didn't abate the guilt.

The Arrowcar swerved, tail spinning out as Oliver slung her off the main streets of Gotham, and into a much more cramped side road. Oliver wasn't sure whether this counted as a street, or an alley: it was one of those spaces caught between the two, wide enough only for a single lane of traffic, an odd mixture of paved and sidewalked and the like. There were no dumpsters here, which was usually a hallmark of an alley; but there were fire escapes, and abandoned boxes. Perhaps there was a special term for it. Perhaps this was a side alley, as opposed to a back alley. Perhaps, but it didn't matter. His mind was stalling.

He frowned his way past his mask, deep in thought, his hands still clutching the steering wheel. "Maybe -"

He faltered, trying to unravel the motives behind the impulse to speak. Was it some selfish sense of loneliness? Was it obligation? Was he just a father trying to figure out the best choice for his daughter? All of them seemed equally true, and equally false. That was the problem with trying to be Dad and Green Arrow at the same time: there were no easy answers from either perspective, and having to wrestle with both to decide what was right often felt impossible.

"Maybe you should stick around here for a while, if it sucks so much back home."

His comment made her look away from the oh-so-picturesque side street view. "Are you serious?"

Ollie joked a lot, and for just a split second she was sure he was doing so here. But she caught just half a glimpse away from the road directed at her and she found herself a bit dumbfounded.

"You are serious."

While it wasn't an entirely unwanted suggestions, it was somewhat surprising. There hadn't been any lengthy discussions about who would go with Oliver to Gotham City, no begging to be taken along, no arguments about staying put where it was safer and keeping up with her tragically behind school work. It was an unspoken understanding, a feeling of discipline and responsibility that had kept her home. She had figured it was the right thing to do, that Ollie hadn't exactly wanted a tag along anyway. Now though, she was forced to question that line of reasoning, left wondering if maybe she should have at least asked in the first place.

"I didn't exactly pack for an extended stay, you know?" The complaint wasn't even remotely serious and any attempt to say it with a straight face was given up almost as instantly as she had begun speaking. "I guess I'll have to have some things sent up. Or, you know..."

The sly grin reappeared under her mask, the red material somehow only adding to the impish grin.

"I could ask Dinah to come bring me some stuff from home."

Dinah. Because of course Mia would play that card.

Oliver dug deep, thinking of other things to prevent his cheeks from turning the same colour as Mia's costume. These days, it seemed like every hero came packaged with their own special weakness, and his was Dinah Laurel Lance: yet another thing that he had abandoned in order to be here, a situation that would worsen the longer he stayed. Mia he could invite to be here. Roy would relish the opportunity to protect Star City without his old man looking over his shoulder. But Dinah? A long time ago, Oliver had learned that it was impossible to predict that woman, and so had resigned himself to stop trying. That conversation was going to be difficult and daunting; but not quite to the same extreme as this one.

"Before you go agreeing to anything -"

Oliver squirmed a little, internally. The speed with which Mia had agreed wasn't surprising: it was the same headlong eagerness that she brought to so much of what she did. But that willingness felt uninformed: how could he accept her decision if she didn't fully know what it was she was agreeing to? Things in Gotham had become complicated, and the investigation into Queen Consolidated was only the start of it.

"Since I've been here in Gotham, I met someone. Well, found someone, really. The kid's a meta, kinda angry and rough around the edges like Roy used to be, and he's -"

He struggled to find the right words to match up with the sentiment he was trying to convey.

"He's cloned from my DNA. Partially, at least. I don't know how it happened, and I sure as hell didn't agree to it, but I can't help feeling -"

He trailed off again. This was harder than he'd expected. It hadn't been this difficult to find the words when he'd rehearsed it in his head. I met a clone, he's sort of my son, but don't worry: nothing will ever stop you being my daughter. That was the gist of it, that was the easy and simple message he wanted to communicate; but here, actually saying it out loud within earshot of Mia, worry drained all the colour and meaning from it. It should be simple, it should be succinct, and yet succinct and simple didn't feel like they did enough; didn't offer enough reassurance. Maybe it wouldn't make a damned difference. Maybe Mia wouldn't care. Maybe she'd think it was cool. Or, maybe she'd feel as is Oliver's biological son - sort of - invalidated the place she had in his life. It was a worry that plagued him with Dinah: not that he'd actively thought about or imagined settling down and starting a family with her or anything; but it was something that plagued him, a dad worry, something for him to fight against before it had the opportunity to manifest.

"- responsible, I guess. He's reckless and untrained, and I'm worried that if I don't do something, he or someone else is going to get hurt. Hell, the idiot already got himself shot in the head, and that's not even the start of it."

Oliver sighed, saving the existential crisis, over how ordinary it felt to find himself saying a sentence like that, for later. Finally he turned, making the difficult step of meeting Mia's gaze.

"He's not my son."

The statement was firm; resolute.

"He could be; but I'm not going to try and make him part of this family until I know my daughter is okay with that."

She wasn't sure exactly what she was supposed to say. A pit had formed in her stomach as Oliver had explained about his semi-clone and it wasn't entirely sure if it wanted to stay or go. Out of everyone in the world she probably knew best that DNA didn't make you family, that just because you were genetically responsible for another person's existence didn't actually mean you were responsible for them. Things should work that way, but they rarely did. If she was honest with herself, there was a streak of instant jealousy in there as well. Oliver had chosen to make her his daughter, and let her become so much more - something she couldn't help but be overly aware of given their current attire and what was in the cards before this little talk had taken place. But at times it didn't seem like enough. It was almost unfair in a way. Mia wasn't Oliver's blood, but there were desperate and dark times when she wished like hell she was - just to completely rid herself of any ties to the man who actually was.

Still, Oliver was her dad. Nothing could take that from her, and all these mixed up feelings that began being dredged up were hanging by a chord that was just about snipped all the way through when he capped off the story with that firm, "He's not my son." It was a line that was drawn, separating her and Roy from this unknown person.

"Is it okay if I don't know if I'm okay with it?" It was most honest answer she had and it felt wrong with how quiet it came out.

Unlike the decision to stay in Gotham, this one would take some time to really process. "I want to say I'm okay with it. I just... Don't know yet."

A follow up question lingered and Mia questioned if she should even ask it, especially after her little quip about Dinah that Ollie had tactfully avoided. It did need to be asked though, since the parties involved actually included the possible sibling. "Does anyone else-"

Before it could be finished though the car was suddenly jostled. It sounded like they'd hit something but Mia knew that was a complete impossibility with how much Ollie loved the damn thing and it sounded like it had hit the roof and then continued to the hood not to mention the red and yellow streak that went right over the windshield and shot down the road in front of them faster than she could even process what the hell had just happened.

"What... the fuck... was that?"

"Damn it, Barry."

The words tumbled from Oliver's mouth, hissed under his breath, the instant he watched the speedster blur streak across his windshield and pristine paintwork, and disappear off down the side street ahead. They escaped before his mind even had the opportunity to contemplate the oddness of Central City's supersonic saviour being here in Gotham, or the chance to recall that it was a different scarlet speedster that had been knocking around these grim and grimey streets the last few months. Kid Flash, but with a snazzy costume upgrade, apparently. Oliver bristled a little at the notion: he'd been pretty pleased with himself when he'd cooked up his whole plan of having Roy wear green back in Star City so that he could be in two places at once, but apparently Barry was trying to muscle in on his deal. Asshole. If he needed to be in two places at once, wasn't there some sort of scientifically dubious speedster mumbo jumbo he should have been doing? Damn it, Barry. Stay on brand.

Oliver almost corrected his verbal damn it, but he had no name to substitute in for the identity of Barry's protégé. It wasn't as if it was some insurmountable mystery that he couldn't have figured out in half an afternoon with a few beers and a half-way reliable internet connection; it was more of a respect thing; a principles thing; a privacy and anonymity thing. He'd never met Flash Jr, Barry had never openly mentioned or introduced him; and even if he had slipped a real name in there, Oliver had or would have pretended not to hear it and then scrubbed it from his memory. Sure, maybe this kid was just some stranger who happened to have the same powers as the Flash; but Oliver's partners were his children, and he made a point of treating everyone else's sidekicks with the same protectiveness.

Wherever Little Red Running Boots was going, he was going there fast. The pessimist in him suggested that maybe the speedster had simply run out of snacks, or had overslept and was late for a Justin Bieber concert, or whatever it was young people these days did with their time; but this was Gotham, and even if the kid wasn't running towards a crime, chances were there'd be a crime going on by the time he got there. Part of him wanted to turn the car around and head off in the other direction, preserving the privacy of his night with Mia, ensuring their continued chance to talk; but if the speedster was off to the rescue, that meant people needed helping. His heart to heart with Mia could wait. Innocents in peril? Not so much.

Oliver let out a deep, heartfelt sigh. "Head to the roofs," he grunted, hands tightening around the wheel. "I'll follow him on street level, and give you directions as I go."

Barry.

It was a name that Mia recognized. Well, more specifically Bartholomew Henry Allen also known as The Flash. She could have repeated her curse with a new question, phrased in the form of What the fuck is he doing here? But honestly, given the ever growing list of people out of their usual cities - a circumstance of which several members of her own family were both guilty of - she didn't even bother. Not with that aforementioned Flash Junior or Flash Boy running about that her dad had said he met.

The dots connected in her head.

Oh hell no. Bad enough Gotham had Batman and whoever the hell his current Boy Wonder was as a dynamic duo that her and her Dad had to show up, but the Flashes too? No no, there was only room for one invading team and that was the Arrows, dammit. Time for the Flashes to learn that lesson the hard way, apparently.

"Got it!"

It was an unnecessary comment, but Red had no shame in projecting the enthusiasm in her voice as she quickly undid the seat belt and grabbed her bow.

Ok, so fair enough, whatever the speedster was running towards was probably bad news and deserved more curiosity and attention, but she had a quarry and a hunt and that was more than enough to propel her out the Arrowcar - with the usual care and lack of hesitation it took to open and close the door behind her - and clamored swiftly up the nearest fire escape.

My name is Wallace West, and I'm the fastest kid alive.

The words repeated over and over in Wally's mind like a mantra as he ran. Cars zipped by in the wrong directions, buildings blurring into canyons as he sped by. It was easy to be disorientated, easy to be overwhelmed by all the sensory stimulation. The Speed Force energy coursing through his body didn't just make him fast on his feet: it made his mind fast, capable of seeing and processing everything. If he had allowed himself, his senses could have noticed every detail, read every licence plate, counted the contents of every window. He could have seen everything. Too much of everything. Too much for his brain to handle. He could have become lost in it, could have become distracted from his purpose, could have been so consumed by absorbing the world around him that he ran, and ran, and ran, and next thing he knew he would have been halfway across the Pacific Ocean with no clue why he was there. You know that feeling of walking into a room, and completely forgetting what you were doing? Imagine that, but at close to the speed of light.

So, Wally recited the words in his mind. Sometimes it was these. Sometimes it was song lyrics. Sometimes it was a list, the periodic table, the IMDb profile of his latest actress obsession - something, anything, to quell the overwhelming swirl and surge of everything that raced by him too fast.

It wasn't that he wasn't paying attention. He knew what was going on around him. He recognised streets as he passed. Shops. Cars. Colours. People. His focus just shunted them from conscious to subconscious - or maybe preconscious? Wally had spent an afternoon reading every book that Central City Library had to offer on the subject of psychological theory, and he still couldn't quite grasp what the hell Sigmund Freud had been on about with all that stuff, except to become mildly disturbed about the guy's obsession with people's moms. Whatever. Not relevant.

Wally did notice, for example, the sexy awesomeness of the Lamborghini he'd just sprinted over the top of; though not fast enough to do anything about it. In the past, he might have swerved around it, but one accidental collision with a dumpster too many had turned him off that particular idea. So, up and over it was, a patter of boots and a blur of lightning, and a sorry, sorry, sorry! muttered under his breath about half a city block too late by the time the words tumbled out.

Three-point-one-one seconds later, Wally came to a halt, skidding sideways on his boots to slide all stylish towards the centre of the street. It was something that Barry - sorry, The Flash - did all the time, copying Tom Cruise from some dumb old movie, Aunt Iris said. For Wally, it had taken a while to perfect. Stuff like that was harder than it looked, especially when you were running faster than sound. You needed to slow down the right amount at the right point, turn just right, time everything perfectly so you didn't go hurtling into a cartwheel as if someone had just stupidly slammed on the front breaks of a bicycle at high speed and gone catapulting over the handlebars... whatever. Wally had learned how to do it. He'd even perfected it to look cool while doing it, and that hadn't been easy: not because Wally had a hard time looking cool, or anything, but because honestly it was a pain in the backside trying to find a big enough open space and enough mirrors or high-speed cameras to actually see what you looked like when you were doing something like that.

As it was, Wally came to a halt almost perfectly in the middle of the street, about two inches left of where he'd been aiming for. Not bad. Definitely close enough to impress anyone watching.

The entire crowds of nobody who were watching.

Wally's brow furrowed underneath his mask. There was supposed to be people here. Bad people. Crime. That was what the police scanner in his little head antenna thingies had said. A 10-35, at thirteenth and fourth. That was a major crime alert. Or maybe it was a stolen car. Or someone wanting to know what the time was. Stupid different cities using different codes for different police forces. Whatever though: whether it was something serious going down, or just someone confused about the time, they were supposed to be here. 13th and 4th. 13th and...

Oh no.

His heart sank and shoulders slumped as his vision settled upon the street signs looming above him. Thirteenth Avenue. Fourth Street. That was... that was the way round that they went, right? Alphabetical order, Avenue then Street? Or was it like a Karate Kid thing, Street then Avenue, up and down and then side to side?

A frustrated growl escaped from Wally, the heels of his palms pounding into his forehead in frustration, a cry of "Name your damn streets, Gotham!" issued out into the night air.

Somewhere between one leap from a rooftop and another, followed by some swift and probably unnecessary but way too much fun rebounding off a wall, grabbing an edge of another and a quick flip to the next - Assassin's Creed, eat your heart out - it occurred to Mia one singular problem and one advantage that Oliver had by staying in the car. Speedster. Key thing was in the beginning of that when it came to such things. Speed. Mia wasn't slow by any means, but when you put her on a chart somewhere with the likes of Mr. Allen and company... Well... She may as well have been laying on the ground and casually glancing in the direction she wanted to go for all the good it would do her to try and actually keep up.

That wasn't the point though, and she knew that. Dad wasn't an idiot, he knew damn well how much she actually needed this. To just get out, to feel the thrill of the chase - even after a seemingly uncatchable target. He also knew one other thing, you didn't need to be fast to catch a speedster, just smart. And damn if she didn't have that in... okay, not spades, she wasn't some meta genius or anything like that but... smart enough. Street smarts, ones that had been learned the hard way. The real hard ways. The type of thing that Oliver had seen in her and crafted to be better.

The kind of smarts that would find a way to let Barry Allen and his cohorts know that things were well in hand and it wouldn't take any special gods-gifted or whatever nonsense superpowers to do it.

Now though, as she felt her boots skid across uneven - what were these? Rocks on the top of a roof? What the hell, Gotham? - Mia had only to hope that she could come up with a plan, or at least clue in to whatever Oliver had brewing within his own mind.

Wally heard it; close, but not too close. The crunch of friction through gravel. Back in Central or Keystone, that usually meant someone was tromping through the suburban front yard of someone too lazy to own and tend to a front lawn, but here in Gotham, it meant a whole different set of things. Weather protection on built-up roofs, a porous layer to safeguard the asphalt from sunlight and heavy precipitation. It was pretty common in areas of Gotham like this one, where the extra cost of a few sacks of gravel was worth it to vastly increase the survivability of a roofing surface. Somewhere as grey and dismal as Gotham, a little extra longevity before things started leaking worked out cheaper in the long run.

The rooftops.

It explained why Wally's 10-35 was nowhere to be seen. This wasn't Central City, where criminals were flamboyant, colourful, and showy, as eager to be seen committing a crime as they were to commit it in the first place, always ready with a theatrical exit to taunt the city's police force and speedster heroes alike. This was Gotham, where criminals were, yes, still flamboyant and showy, but not nearly so colourful, and they were more likely to scatter to the shadows like roaches than stick around long enough for The Bat to show up and ruin their day. Wally was a little jealous of that, honestly. Not that he wanted psychopaths like the Joker showing up to torment the people of Central City, not by a long shot, but every now and again it would have been nice if the Rogues acted scared, or at least intimidated, when the Flash and Kid Flash showed up, rather than acting as if the balloon animal guy had just shown up at some kid's birthday party.

Damn it, Wally. The rooftops.

Right. Yes. Gotham City. Gotham criminals. They fled to the alleys, and the sewers, and the roofs or rooves or whichever one it was meant to be. Wally still wasn't sure what a 10-35 was, but something was up there, north side of the street, three buildings down; and he could feel it in his bones that whatever it was, he couldn't let them escape. A blitz of lightning carried him backwards, far enough down the Gotham roadway to allow for the requisite acceleration. Another flurry of amber later, and Kid Flash streaked up the side of the building, darted across the adjoining rooftops and inter-building separations, and into reach of his quarry.

What he stumbled across wasn't what he expected, and in the split second it took to arc around the person in question and bring himself into their path, the mental gymnastics his thoughts went through was impressive. Time that would ordinarily have been spent thinking of some sort of witty challenge for the soon to be apprehended ne'er-do-wells was dedicated to thinking of something else to say instead. As the world around him resolved from a blur into normal focus, Wally found himself leaning casually against one of those door thingies, where a stairway emerged onto the roof.

"We've been through a lot, Roy, but damn. You aren't the man I thought you were."

It was bad. Very bad. But it could have been worse, especially when you considered that what's a girl like you doing on a roof like this? had been a strong contender. It could also have been catastrophic, had it not been for the fact that Wally's mouth was far faster than his brain. The initial moment of recognition, that this was Roy Harper's successor as the Green Arrow's designated plus one, had fired off around seventeen milliseconds before the realisation that Roy's successor, Roy's female successor, was in fact a lady. His mouth had launched into action before that secondary realisation had processed through his brain, otherwise things might have been significantly less eloquent.

As it was, Wally did his best to maintain the requisite swagger that was part of his costume. Wallace West might have been terrible with girls, but Kid Flash? Kid Flash was a ladykiller. Not in the sense of actually killing ladies or anything, more in the sense that there were countless tumblr blogs dedicated to how dreamy Central City's teen champion was. He'd seen the fan art, and read the fan fictions, and whoa boy, Kid Flash's reputation with ladies was sizeable.

An unnecessary crackle of lightning brought Kid Flash a few steps closer in the brink of an eye, a friendly smile gracing his lips.

"You must be Green Arrow's new partner," he greeted, a mix of warmth and what he hoped was an appropriate amount of confident manliness. "I'm Kid Flash, and you are -"

He cocked his head to the side, unsure if the chosen alias of the archer before him was a fact he'd forgotten, or one he had simply never known.

"Hmm. Let me guess. Arrowette? Artemis? No no no... something Robin Hood themed. Wilma Scarlet?"

Not Barry.

That was the first thing that went through her mind, though she'd heard of how The Flash was known for his quips - a trait he apparently had bestowed upon his sidekick. What did he say his alias was? Kid Flash? Seriously? That was the best they could come up with? Okay, so fair enough; it wasn't like her alias was the most creative thing ever, but that had been donned with a whole host of intention and sentiment. It wasn't like she was She-Arrow or Arrow Girl or any of those ridiculous options that'd just left Flash Jr.'s mouth.

Except maybe that second one. That wasn't half bad, actually.

"Red Arrow."

Oliver probably wouldn't be proud that her first impression delivered was her alias spoken in a way that came out as if she was questioning Kid Flash's ability to clearly see and know the obvious. At least he should have heard about her - shouldn't he? I mean... The guy knew Roy's real name, after all!

Wait. Roy. Why the hell hadn't Roy ever mentioned he knew The Flash's protégé on a first-real-name-basis? On second thought, why hadn't Dad mentioned that Roy probably knew Kid Flash from something that obviously was in the past that she wasn't privy to. Hadn't there been some sort of attempt at making some sort of Youth Justice League or something at some point? Sidekicks banding together? That had been a thing she'd thought she'd caught wind of and been mildly jealous about, hadn't it? Or was that just some sort of rumor she'd read online one time?

Whatever. Flash Boy knew Roy. Or had known. Whatever.

"Sorry to disappoint." Red's arms crossed in front of her as she leaned just a fraction away from Kid Flash's rather too close for comfort proximity.

"Y'know, Roy's actually around here somewhere." The last word was flourished a bit, well, about as much as she was going to muster for this conversation - with a small wave of one of her hands, twirled in one of those vague circular motions. "At least for tonight."

She felt the somewhat cruel smile tug unfairly at her lips before she even had time to fully register it, or the words that were following far too quickly to be stopped. "So you know, you can tell me where you were headed, go find your old friend, catch up, share a burger or something... And leave the super hero work to the real professionals."

Yeah okay, Oliver would have definitely given her a cuff upside the head for that one. She wasn't normally like this. It was probably that whole... just finding out you had a kind of - not really - brother thing that she totally wasn't going to stress about since Oliver had already said the kid was not his son or anything unless she and Roy were cool with it. News like that didn't phase her to a point where it'd be noticeable, right? Right.

Red Arrow.

Nothing anyone could have said, and nothing Wally had ever experienced, could have prepared him for those two words. Nothing could prepare him for the way her voice unleashed them, laced with a fatal dose of indignant poison, nor the way her eyes defiantly gleamed out from beneath her scarlet hood. Nothing could have braced him for the smile that followed: cruel, yes, but in an Evil Queen played by Charlize Theron sort of way. Framed in shadow, the elegant lines of her features illuminated only by the gentle caress of street lights and light-polluted skies, the realisation, the recognition, lanced through his heart like an arrow. Oh no.

Fortunately, Red Arrow followed up with a second arrow to the chest, one that punctured a lung and robbed Wally of the breath he needed to make a response. Professionals. Under any other circumstance, Wally might have fired back with a retort of his own, or laughed things off. Instead, he found himself wounded, bleeding out from the judgement and disapproval of a total stranger that he suddenly found himself desperately needing to impress. Okay, so maybe he'd fired the first volley in this conversation, but it was banter, you know? It was how things had always been with Roy, with Donna, with the others. He'd meant it as a welcoming tease, not in the actively mean manner in which Red Arrow had chosen to respond. Wally's face fell, his expression sinking like a chastised puppy.

"Why would I -"

Wally tried to adjust his posture, suddenly self-conscious of the position of his arms, hanging awkwardly at his side. He reached out for the structure he had been stood beside before, only realising a few moments later that it was no longer beside him. The hand that had reached out awkwardly patted the air, and then found its way to the back of his neck, fidgeting with the base of his cowl, which suddenly felt incredibly hot and itchy.

"I mean, how would -"

A genuine frown formed across his brow as he contemplated the word she'd used. Professionals. His head sunk slightly, narrowed eyes trying to peer beneath the scarlet archer's hood: not seeking to discern her identity, just searching for a little extra input from her facial expressions as he managed to formulate a coherent question.

"Professionals? Do you... get paid for this?"

Of course we do. You don't? Dude, there's a union and everything.

This, along with the heavily fought against eye-roll never left her. Instead Red Arrow just peered at her - well, not quite peer - from under her hood. He had to be joking. There was no way he was this naive.

"That's not, exactly what I meant."

Seriously, what sort of ideas had Barry put into this kids' head that he would even ask that. A sigh, genuine rather than over dramatic, left her. Apparently not everyone had the honest truth sort of mentor she did. Even if that truth was sometimes a bit overwhelming.

Or not overwhelming. This was so not about her not-brother. This was about Kid Flash or Flash Junior or whatever and the fact that Roy hadn't told her about all his experiences with other big name heroes' partners. Clearly he hadn't learned the truth thing from dad...

"Look, just... How about you and your boss stay out of the way, okay? Me and Green got the city covered tonight."

Her arms de-tangled themselves from where they had tensed in a bundle in front of her, her shoulders rolled to try and work out of the seriously what the hell tension that had suddenly built up as she backed away from Kid Flash and towards the edge of the roof, preparing for a rather dramatic - if unnecessary - exit. A moment was taken to half consider activating the headset built into edging of her mask, bringing Green Arrow into the mix and up to date on her current situation but that felt more like it would come off as some sort of cry for help rather than just an info dump. Nah, she had this handled for now.

"Wait, wait, wait."

Wally's eyes grew wider beneath his cowl.

"Green Arrow is here?"

A surge of lightning propelled Kid Flash forward, feet skidding into the raised edge of the building as he peered over into the dark street below. Thoughts flashed and crashed through his mind. Too many thoughts, and too many thoughts about those thoughts. That was the problem with being a speedster: even thinking at the speed of light took time, if you had the sort of brain that was compelled to consider every implication and permutation. Like, Roy being in town for example. Why hadn't he called? Okay so sure, it had been a while since they'd hung out and whatever, but they'd fought crime together. Saved the world, hyperbolically speaking. It wasn't like Roy didn't know that Wally was here in Gotham now: hell, Roy had liked his Superfriends status when Wally updated it, so Roy knew he was here. Had he just forgotten? Was that the kind of detail that slipped a person's mind? Or had it been deliberate, willful, the older sidekick making a choice not to draw attention to his presence? To avoid being burdened with the younger and infinitely less cool speedster who had isolised him back in the day? And then what about the other stuff? If there was a new Speedy, or Red Arrow, or whatever, what did that mean for the old Speedy? Did he still rock around in the same outfit, the two of them all matchy-matchy and cool? Or had stuff changed when he'd left for college? Was he someone else now? Something else? What about -

It was half-way through that string of thoughts when another fragmentary shard of Wally's attention stumbled across something as it slowly processed its way through the various visuals and images that had blurred past him a he ran, the data taking an eternity to process as if it was being downloaded from a space probe on the far side of the solar system.

"Oh no."

Wally felt something wrap around his chest, a tight icy grip as the blur of green resolved in his mind into sharper and sharper focus.

"Oh no."

Another burst of Speed Force carried him stumbling backwards, the shallow breaths of anxiety beginning to take hold in Wally's chest. Guilt drove itself through his heart like an arrowhead, a sensation he was surely going to experience first-hand before the night was out, because of what he, in the blurred oblivion of his speed, had done.

"I ran on the Arrowcar."

His wide eyes glanced at Red Arrow for the briefest moment, before abandoning her scarlet visage to stare in horror at the ground. He didn't deserve to look at anything cute and leather-clad, not after what he'd done. Wally's innards turned to ice. Did he damage it? Scratch it? Was it okay?

"G.A. is going to kill me."