[Introduction] "This is it, the apocalypse... "
It was accomplished. He just didn't expect it would end like this, he and Oliver, facing off, man to man, one in black, the other in green. What was with that color scheme anyway? Was Robert's son imagining himself as some Robin Hood for the new millennium? Stealing from the One-Percent to give to the Ninety-Nine?
"Don't struggle, it's over," Merlyn said, almost gently, He had the upper hand now, his arm locked around Oliver's neck, the pressure gradually building in a bid to slowly strangle the youth. "There was never any doubt about the outcome..." Nevertheless, Oliver's youthful vigor and fondness for theatrics got the better of him. Scrabbling at the gravel of the roof, the youth came upon a dropped arrow, grabbing it, sliding it under his own armpit and into Merlyn's chest. Clever: not sporting, but no real fight was a fair fight. Merlyn felt the shaft slide through to pierce his back, sending a flare of pain through his torso, fierce enough to madden him and make him let go of Oliver, giving the youth the chance to turn on him, punching him in the face and sending him sprawling.
"It's over," Oliver said, standing over him, no real triumph in that statement. Some accomplice must have cued him over an earpiece commlink, told him of some valiant effort to defuse the device that would level the Glades.
"If I've learned anything as a successful businessman, it's..." Merlyn rasped, coughing up a mouthful of blood. "Redundancy." Let the would-be vigilante chew on that bit of knowledge. The dismay in the young man's slack face spoke volumes.
The pain engulfed him, pulling him down. He felt his body losing strength and he collapsed onto his face, too weak to hold himself up.
Rebecca... I'll be seeing you soon... he thought, as the edges of his vision slowly went grey in darkening shades, till all went black...
He feels himself rising out of the black waters of unconsciousness into light. The rain-damp gravel under him has transformed into cool tiles, the kind found in an old-fashioned kitchen. He opens his eyes and turns his head to find himself in... an old fashioned kitchen, sprawled on the floor, blinking up at a well-used table and chairs and well-worn fixtures and distressed wooden cabinets. His shoulder still burns with pain, and the drying blood has gummed his tunic to his chest. No pain in his upper back, where the arrowhead exited: how could that have healed?
Unless this is some strange heaven or hell.
Name: Malcolm Merlyn (aka. the Dark Archer)
Fandom: Arrow
Media: TV show/graphic novel
Typist: Ref
Other relevant info: Title ganked from "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons. He's just coming from his final confrontation with Oliver Queen, and thus he's decidedly discombobulated and injured, though not as seriously as he was when he left his world; he will need medical help/a healer of some sort, however. People are free to mistake him for another guy at the Mansion who shares the same PB (the fandom loves to joke about that fact....). Feel free to send even the oddest personages to say hello.
The first commenter acts as a welcoming committee. All following interactions are deemed later in the day, when the character is settled.