The Unanswered

[Connor Kent]

“You would know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

Connor tossed his accusation Queen’s way with a lift of his chin. In the time since they departed the boxing ring, he’d squared himself hard against the wall, and folded his arms. That way, if anyone tried anything, he could see it coming.

The atmosphere inside the gym had changed the moment Oliver Queen hit the canvas. It took forever, his fall, long enough for the sight of his opponent’s contorted rubbery face to burn itself into the back of Connor’s eyes. Now that Queen was getting intimate with a bag of frozen peas, he could relish the memory of his vacant punchdrunk gaze - a nostalgic keepsake to be dusted off and admired long into the future - but at the time, it had filled him with a cold dread. The wait tied his insides in knots; he watched as the big guy roused him, and wondered if he would ever get up. More than once, he had looked to the exit and considered his escape route. But it was not to be: Oliver Queen found his feet at last, and the least he could do was join him ringside while he recovered. It gave Connor time to think, and reflect on what had just transpired: in his blind anger, he’d almost killed a man.

Guilt held his tongue and bowed his head, and the silence stretched in taut tenuous strands between them. But when his would-be-victim finally spoke, the tension snapped, and he dismissed that particular albatross with a shrug, rising to his full height. So Queen knew his secret. It was no great surprise, considering what had happened, and it wasn’t like Connor had tried to hide it, after all. He wanted him to see the fruits of his labour, to feel it. And now, Oliver Queen was threatening him with the authorities instead of assuming responsibility for his actions. How predictable. A swarm of sharp and jagged thoughts took flight in his mind, stoking the fires of a familiar grudge. His jaw turned to stone. His fists were rocks. He could fight. He could run.

And, in a breath, the fight was gone. Long and measured, he sucked in air like ice water, dousing the flames of his anger. If he lashed out now, it marked the end of his time in Gotham. Where would he go? What would he do? The shadow of faceless tormentors passed over him - they were only a phone call away. One phone call, and his whole world became a mousetrap, or worse, a hamster wheel. He couldn’t run anymore. There had to be another way, but he struggled to believe the solution was to trust in the mercy of a privileged rich boy. After all, he had seen the extent of Queen mercy, first hand.

“You started this, Oliver Queen.” The name itself was a condemnation, “You started all of it!”

[Oliver Queen]

He'd know all about it? What was that supposed to mean?

For a fleeting moment, he wondered if it was a reference to his alter ego - some allusion to Green Arrow being more familiar than most with metahumans, having faced off against them from time to time. But that didn't make sense. Sure, there were metahumans in Star City, but the Green Arrow was hardly notorious for fighting them in particular; any metahumans he encountered were incidental, criminals who just happened to have powers. Unlike the Flash, or the Atom, or Firestorm, he didn't have a reputation for finding a scientific solution to scientific threats: he just shot at things with arrows. It didn't fit with Connor's reactions, either: he'd seemed surprised to find someone atypically muscular underneath his Oliver Queen disguise. He hadn't expected Oliver to be someone who could fight back.

So then what? Before the island, Oliver had been every bit the vacuous trust fund brat that everyone accused him of being. For the next five years he'd been dead as far as the world was concerned, and for the five since he'd done nothing publicly, not really. A few charity endorsements, a few fundraisers, a few parties and premieres to keep him enough in the public consciousness that no one ever wondered what he was truly up to. His life was a carefully crafted smokescreen, a distraction with entirely no substance. Amid all that, what on earth could he possibly have started?

He kept his face as neutral as he could; kept his voice calm, erring slightly towards stern interrogation but with plenty of care to avoid and provocation or semblance of threat?

"You'll have to be a bit more specific than that, kid. For some reason my brain is feeling a little sluggish right now."

[Connor Kent]

“Cadmus Labs.”

With those two words uttered, he folded his arms, as if tying a bow on a perfectly packaged argument. He waited, expecting to see the weight of his words unloaded into Queen’s unfaltering gaze. In his mind’s eye, he saw it as clear as day: the slight widening of the eyes, a telling drop in the jaw, the stupid gaping mouth. But his imagination held no sway over reality, and the look on Queen’s spoke not of surprise, but of a man waiting to hear the punchline to an unfunny joke. Was he trying to piss him off?

“Don’t play dumb!” he snapped, “Cadmus Labs - a company making breakthroughs in genetic research doesn’t just disappear overnight. Did you think no one would notice?”

A snort of disbelief gnarled his face. After his escape, once he felt safe enough to surface from the rotten shadows, Connor sought to make sense of what had happened to him, of the things he’d seen and heard. The images were vivid, but brief; painful flashes, like pinpricks in his mind. He pieced them together as best he could, using snippets from newspapers, and word on the street, to make a Frankenstein’s monster of his memories. According to all sources, Cadmus Labs no longer existed, which meant that either someone was lying, or he was having a really bad dream. All he knew for sure was that, though the labcoats of Cadmus had been his jailors, it was the money of Queen Consolidated that had built his bars. And it was insulting to think that Oliver Queen himself could just sit there and deny it.

Despite the broth of emotions simmering below the surface, in that moment, Connor at least had the presence of mind to close the space between them, and mutter his confession:

“I was there. And your family’s fingerprints were all over it, Queen.”

[Oliver Queen]

"Are you Amish?"

The indignant question struggled it's way out of Oliver, utter disbelief needing to spool up before the words could be uttered. Oliver had been accused of a great many things in his life, and a fair percentage of those had something to do with his surname. He'd had his fair share of stalkers too, but everything about this was baffling and disappointing. Was this kid from the dark ages? Had he chosen the victim of his ire without so much as a google search, a few seconds spent on Oliver's wikipedia page?

"I don't have a family, kid. When I was about thirteen years old, my parents died in an accident on safari in Africa. Ten years ago, I was thrown overboard by a storm during a yacht party, and spent nearly five years stranded on an island in the middle of the Pacific. When I finally made it home I had been declared legally dead, and my company had gone public."

He shook his head, ignoring how much it hurt so that he could muster a disapproving scowl towards Connor. Right now, he kinda was wishing he had wound up secretly being this kid's father: at least that way he could kick his ass and send him to his room. Then again... Connor? Who the hell in their right mind would name their son Connor?

"My family doesn't have it's fingerprints on anything, kid. If you'd spent more than five seconds reading up on me before you decided on this little misplaced vendetta, you would have realised that."

[Connor Kent]

That… was unexpected.

“What?”

Just a twinge of disbelief laced his words. The rest of it had been boiled away by Queen’s fierce and decisive rebuttal. There was nothing of what had been said that Connor could challenge, primarily because, it was true, he simply didn’t know better. The words washed over him like wire wool, scrubbing away layer upon layer of prejudicial callous, until all that remained was the red raw fool underneath.

If what Oliver Queen said was true, then, in his own quest for the truth, Connor had made one glaring oversight. If it was true, the man stood before him not only had nothing to do with Queen Consolidated, but by extension, he also had no answers to give. Inside, he was in freefall. It was not enough that he had chased his leads to a dead end; it was not enough that he had revealed to a perfect stranger his secret; it was not enough that he had pinned his frustrations on an innocent man, but that, in his anger, he had stalked and attacked him, too. A quest for the truth? He gave himself far too much credit. Queen had it right: this was a vendetta.

“You know nothing about Cadmus Labs? About…” The last stubborn ember of disbelief died in his eyes. In its place, there came a plea: “Nothing?”

[Oliver Queen]

The stupid decision was made right then and there: right as he watched the hope die in Connor's eyes. It didn't matter that Oliver and his family were innocent of whatever fate had befallen Connor; it didn't matter that logically, none of this was his fault. Logic had nothing to do with it. Logic wasn't the reason that he was here in Gotham, investigating what had become of his father's legacy. Logic wasn't why he was trying to uncover the sordid activities being inflicted upon Gotham's people in his name. Not logic: responsibility. Maybe even a little desire for justice: for his parents' memory, but more importantly for the people made to suffer by it. When one of those people presented themselves to him the way that Connor had, how could he do anything but help?

"About Cadmus Labs?"

He shook his head, choosing his words carefully.

"Queen Consolidated has made dozens, maybe hundreds of acquisitions over the last decade. Some of those companies have contributed their proprietary designs into QC's latest tech, but things like pharmaceuticals, or genetic research? Something untoward is going on with my father's old company, and I don't like it. That -"

For the briefest moment he found himself hesitating. Why was he saying this? Why was he showing his hand this way? Had the kid hit him so hard that all sense had vacated his skull, or was it just that nagging, niggling familiarity about this kid that he couldn't shake; that sense that he knew this boy, and knew he could be trusted? Too late now, Oliver. The chips are down; time to find out if this kid is bluffing or not.

"That's why I'm here, in Gotham. That's why I was in the library earlier, in fact: I'm trying to track down all of QC's acquisitions, see if there's some sort of discernible pattern. Cadmus Labs, though?"

He shook his head, trying to shuffle through his memories to see if it matched any of them. He knew Cadmus was a figure from Greek mythology; the guy who planted the teeth in the ground, and grew himself an army of skeleton warriors, like that old stop motion scene in the Jason and the Argonauts movie. King of Thebes, slayer of dragons, inventor of the Greek alphabet, ancestor of the Kings of Sparta... nothing rang any bells. There'd been nothing named Cadmus, or anything like it in the list of acquisitions thus far. Maybe the corporation had been renamed before it was acquired, but certainly not as anything that even remotely related to it's original name. He'd need to begin a whole new line of investigation -

He frowned. "I'm really hoping you did more research into Cadmus than you did into me."

[Connor Kent]

“Cadmus Labs is a ghost story,” Connor began. He glanced up, and met Queen’s gaze, which, despite being half-framed in a palette of bruising and unflattering puffiness, remained steadfast. Was he really having this conversation?

While ‘serendipity’ was a word in his vocabulary, it wasn’t until Oliver Queen began his confession in earnest that he truly understood its meaning. He hung off his words, and fumbled blindly for the chair behind him. Once seated, he leaned forward, hands clasped, elbows on his knees - to the casual onlooker, the pair of them could be simply reviewing their fight. When it became Connor’s turn to speak, his face creased in thought.

“It was called Project Cadmus, in the beginning. A small team of scientists with backgrounds in stem cell research. They were working on a cure for,” here, he glanced beyond Queen, and his voice took on a monotonous quality, as if he were labouring over a word in a book, “Osteoporosis.”

“With funding from Queen Industries, Project Cadmus expanded to a much larger site in Metropolis. They become Cadmus Labs. That was when they started to work on… embryonic… gene therapy. Seven years ago, it happened: there were rumours something big was about to come out of the labs, like they had some big announcement planned, and then they were gone, almost overnight. It was as if Cadmus Labs never existed.”

His gaze had drifted off as he recalled the details he’d accumulated over the last two months. The story had been committed to memory, and recited, like a prayer, in the quiet of the night. It was good to have an audience, at last. It was better than that - it was like exhaling a long-held breath. Finally, he returned his attention to Oliver Queen, his unlikely confidante.

“There are all kinds of strange theories. Some say Cadmus was relocated to Washington to work for the government. Some say Queen Industries pulled its funding, but I know better: I saw the machines, the equipment, the weapons - your name was everywhere.”

[Oliver Queen]

First Tyler Chemical, the pharmaceutical firm with a flair for vitamins and supplements; now Cadmus Labs, with stem cell research and gene therapies. The two stuck out like a sore thumb, components of Queen Consolidated that didn't seem to jive with what was supposed to be the company's mandate; acquisitions that Oliver just couldn't understand the rationale behind.

At least Connor's information disposed of one mystery. Cadmus Labs wasn't one of Queen Consolidated's recent acquisitions, hence it's absence from his recent research. It was something older, a project that the family business had funded into existence; one that had apparently undergone the same mysterious disappearances as Tyler Chemical, AmerTek Industries, and the rest. Queen Industries funding medical research wasn't beyond the realm of normalcy either. Bruce Wayne had his Wayne Foundation for such things, but he wasn't the only wealthy capitalist who gave money to good sources when he had the opportunity. Osteoporosis was an oddly specific cause; but all it took was one close friend, one member of the board, one prominent employee to have a loved one suffering from the condition, and that was enough to bring Project Cadmus to the attention of Robert Queen, or William Glenmorgan, or whoever happened to have been running the company at the time.

That old movie drifted through Oliver's mind again; that clunky old stop-motion animation. Growing skeletons. Stem cells. Osteoporosis. Quite the appropriate name, all things considered.

The novelty thought faded however as Connor's information continued to sink in. Queen's name, everywhere? Lab equipment? Weapons? Queen Industries had never had a weapons division, not under his father's leadership, but AmerTek Industries? Military contracts and weapons development had definitely been their forte, back before they had disappeared. Medical equipment didn't leap out as something Oliver could recall the business ever making, but he was willing to bet that if he looked through his list of acquisitions, he'd find all the constituent parts accounted for amongst Queen Consolidated's missing subsidiaries. Not gone then, not dissolved or disbanded: just off the grid, still in operation, but away from the prying eyes of the public - and the authorities. Somehow, he doubted whatever practices had led to Connor's current metahuman circumstances were FDA approved.

"I'm guessing they didn't exactly let you go." It was more of a statement than a question, his mind already racing off down tangents, trying to recall incidents in recent months that he might have read about that might explain the escape of someone with Connor's abilities. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack; a haystack he hadn't really been paying attention to in the first place. Maybe Connor had more information; somewhere to start, at least. "The facility where you were held... I don't suppose you remember where it was, do you?"

[Connor Kent]

“Somewhere in Nevada.” Connor shrugged, “I was disoriented. Confused. For the longest time, there was nothing but sand and dust. I avoided roads, towns. The first time I bothered to read a sign, it said ‘Welcome to Utah.’”

The absurdity of it hit him the moment he said it, and he smiled in spite of himself. It was a ridiculous story, and that’s all it was, really: a story. Those first memories were so far removed from who he was that it felt like they belonged to someone else. It was the fractured misadventure of a sobering drunk, struggling to put the pieces together. And, like any self-respecting drunk, he kept the uncomfortable details to himself. It had been a hell of a hangover.

“The facility itself was deep underground, but up top, I saw some buildings, vehicles… planes, too. There was a military presence.” He shook his head, disappointed, “That’s all I know.”

[Oliver Queen]

Oliver blinked. Was Connor saying what it seemed like he was saying?

"A secret military base."

He couldn't believe he was saying those words. Couldn't believe he was even entertaining the notion.

"In Nevada."

The ice pack left Oliver's cheek, and pressed itself against his forehead, drooping down enough for the cooling contact to soothe across his closed eyes. It was a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. Whether you called it Groom Lake, or Dreamland, or something else entirely, the prospect of secret experiments happening at an underground facility at or near Area 51 - it seemed absurd. But then, perhaps not. Little green men, little grey men, and the experiments conducted on them had always seemed like the stuff of fiction, of the Twilight Zone, of X-Files. And then Superman had shown up, in all his red caped, red trunked glory. Aliens were real. The supernatural was real. Magic, and telepaths, and shapeshifters, and all of that. What reason then was there to cling to scepticism? Why were those conspiracies still so hard to believe?

"I don't suppose there was a big '51' painted on the wall anywhere, was there?"

[Connor Kent]

“No.”

There was no amusement in Connor’s eyes. In that moment, his face was a cemetery of good humour, and he did not appreciate Queen’s untimely appetite for comedy. There was nothing funny about it, he thought, with simmering indignation. Perhaps Queen thought he was mistaken, or, even worse, lying, about what he saw.

“I know how it sounds, but it’s the truth. Maybe that was the point, to hide Cadmus Labs behind all that conspiracy theory crap. I don’t know.”

He stood, no longer willing to justify himself. The bundle of straws was growing thin, and he wasn’t about to start grasping at them like someone desperate. Whatever crusade Oliver Queen had embarked upon, to redeem his family’s name, it did not involve skulking around in top secret military bases. He didn’t seem the type. He was the have-lunch-with-people-in-expensive-suits type, even if he did have a killer right cross.

Connor pulled on his jacket, and replaced his cap. He considered Queen, and his newfound understanding of him, and allowed for one concession, “Look, just... if you hear anything, look me up. Okay?”

[Oliver Queen]

"And how do I do that, exactly?"

Okay, so perhaps this kid had a right to be stoic and humourless. Being experimented upon hardly seemed like an experience that would be a pleasant memory. Being stranded on a secluded island for several years and forced to fight day by day to survive wasn't a pleasant memory either, nor were all of the other off-menu ordeals that he had faced during that time. Being miserable about it didn't make those experiences go away. It didn't stop you being the product of them. There was something absurd and science fictional about Connor's story; but there was something absurd and science fictional about life these days. Hiding from it, scowling about it, refusing to find the scraps of joy in amongst the bad - that helped no one. That was a path that led only to misery and darkness. That was the switch that flipped between an ordeal making you a hero, and it making you a villain.

Oliver shrugged.

"You didn't exactly give me a full name and address or anything. Do I just wander around the city trying to find random groups of young people, calling your name until I stumble across you?"

[Connor Kent]

“Oh, yeah,” Connor said to himself. From inside his jacket, he fished a small notepad, and flipped through pages of wild scribblings until he found a blank sheet. A pen was produced, and he wrote down the number to his phone. It was a cheap chunk of plastic that Turk had insisted he keep on him at all times - it was nice to be able to give his number to someone who wasn’t a criminal. He tore out the page and handed it to Queen, “My number. Although, if you ever do call my name? I have excellent hearing.”

So it was hypocritical of him to bust out the humour after being so serious. What else was he going to do when Oliver Queen’s mouth was set to maximum snark? He even afforded him the slightest of smiles to diffuse the tension. The encounter had been productive, after all, even if he hadn’t found the answers he sought.

“Thank you for not calling the DEO on me. And, uh…” With a wince, he pointed at his swollen cheek, “Sorry I broke your face.”

[Oliver Queen]

A small smile tugged at the corner of Oliver's mouth. Not calling the DEO was about the least-bad thing that Oliver could have done, all things considered. There were all manner of secret prisons and shady organisations out in the world, each with increasingly negative opinion of metahumans. The DEO was pretty fluffy and friendly by comparison, all things considered.

More than that though, it was the concern. The apology. Connor looked at him, and saw Oliver Queen. He had no idea how regularly Oliver found himself punched through a wall, thrown from a building by an explosion, whammied by some metahuman power or other... taking a blow to the face in a boxing ring, that was practically normal person behaviour; as close to it as Oliver ever got, at least. He'd taken worse hits during sparring matches with Dinah; not surprising really, when you and one of the world's most formidable martial artists treated sparring as some weird alternative to flirting the way regular humans did.

"Don't worry, Connor," Oliver assured, with a slight chuckle. "You hit like a girl."

Of course, that crack in the floodgates unleashed a torrent of thoughts and emotions that battered into Oliver like a tidal wave. He was Oliver Queen. The ultimate bachelor. The ultimate loner. Independent. Self sufficient. All these feelings, this sadness and regret, the tugging sensation in his chest as if he desperately needed to be even just a few paces closer to wherever she was; those sensations shouldn't belong to him. He was smarter than that. Wasn't he?

"Trust me," he added, his faint distraction scuffing off some of the mirthful edge from those words. "Given the kind of girls that I hang around with, that's definitely a compliment."