[Narrative] I know you, little libertine.
Several weeks ago.
He isn't even shaking. She's just turned his bow to cinders, she's severed every outside contact she could think of, she's let him push his body as far as it can go, and he's being a bastard and making this easy for her.
She didn't want it to be easy. She wanted him to shake, to beg and plead for his life, so that she could at least tell herself afterwards that she knew it wasn't right, that she had no choice. She wanted to despise herself and move on, like she'd done in the past.
But he knelt there, crouched over, shoulders hunched, breathing heavily, his eyes refusing to focus, and still he met her gaze with all the arrogance of a fanatic.
"You - won't - win," he said. Flecks of his spittle ghosted against her arm; she flinched, just a little. Then she straightened up, sighing.
"You don't get it. This isn't about winners and losers, superhero. It always balances out in the end." She held out her hand again. "It's about a choice."
He was practically twice her size, in the prime of his life; she was just a tall, skinny teenager with a trick up her sleeve he couldn't have countered if his life depended on it. Funny how the universe works like that.
"You know, after a tussle like this, usually I get to learn my opponent's - name," he said, then winced as his ribs shrieked from exertion. "Especially since you seem to know mine."
She shook her head. "Not in the job description. Sorry. Now, let's try this again. Shake my hand, give up the Senate race as even a remote possibility, and I leave." She throws as much menace into the words as she possibly can.
"And give up - everything I - believe in." He laughs sharply, groggily. "Like hell."
She turned her hand up, palm facing him. She looked almost apologetic. "You said it." And fire danced between them, leaping malevolently from her palm onto his face. She clenched her fist shut, holding it up, and turned away from the burning man.
She would not let him see the glint of tears on her face.
Faust left the mansion with his screams still echoing in her ears.
She remained in town long enough to see him recover, quicker than most, and while eating breakfast at a local Starbucks, she glanced over at the paper. She snatched it up immediately, a grin slowly spreading across her face.
The headline was simple: THE RACE IS STILL ON! She skimmed over the article and learned two things: Oliver Queen would not allow this injury to impact his upcoming race, and he had in fact revamped his entire platform to reflect the lessons he'd taken from the ordeal!
He pledged that, just like he had done himself, he would bring this country out of its bed of ashes, reborn like a phoenix, soaring to greater heights than it had dreamed of reaching in centuries! It was typical Ollie Queen rhetoric, and the newspapers never got enough of it.
To tell the truth, neither did Faust. But she'd seen enough; she could feel it. She finished her coffee, set the paper down, and left with a smile on her face.
It worked out.
It always balanced out in the end.
He isn't even shaking. She's just turned his bow to cinders, she's severed every outside contact she could think of, she's let him push his body as far as it can go, and he's being a bastard and making this easy for her.
She didn't want it to be easy. She wanted him to shake, to beg and plead for his life, so that she could at least tell herself afterwards that she knew it wasn't right, that she had no choice. She wanted to despise herself and move on, like she'd done in the past.
But he knelt there, crouched over, shoulders hunched, breathing heavily, his eyes refusing to focus, and still he met her gaze with all the arrogance of a fanatic.
"You - won't - win," he said. Flecks of his spittle ghosted against her arm; she flinched, just a little. Then she straightened up, sighing.
"You don't get it. This isn't about winners and losers, superhero. It always balances out in the end." She held out her hand again. "It's about a choice."
He was practically twice her size, in the prime of his life; she was just a tall, skinny teenager with a trick up her sleeve he couldn't have countered if his life depended on it. Funny how the universe works like that.
"You know, after a tussle like this, usually I get to learn my opponent's - name," he said, then winced as his ribs shrieked from exertion. "Especially since you seem to know mine."
She shook her head. "Not in the job description. Sorry. Now, let's try this again. Shake my hand, give up the Senate race as even a remote possibility, and I leave." She throws as much menace into the words as she possibly can.
"And give up - everything I - believe in." He laughs sharply, groggily. "Like hell."
She turned her hand up, palm facing him. She looked almost apologetic. "You said it." And fire danced between them, leaping malevolently from her palm onto his face. She clenched her fist shut, holding it up, and turned away from the burning man.
She would not let him see the glint of tears on her face.
Faust left the mansion with his screams still echoing in her ears.
She remained in town long enough to see him recover, quicker than most, and while eating breakfast at a local Starbucks, she glanced over at the paper. She snatched it up immediately, a grin slowly spreading across her face.
The headline was simple: THE RACE IS STILL ON! She skimmed over the article and learned two things: Oliver Queen would not allow this injury to impact his upcoming race, and he had in fact revamped his entire platform to reflect the lessons he'd taken from the ordeal!
He pledged that, just like he had done himself, he would bring this country out of its bed of ashes, reborn like a phoenix, soaring to greater heights than it had dreamed of reaching in centuries! It was typical Ollie Queen rhetoric, and the newspapers never got enough of it.
To tell the truth, neither did Faust. But she'd seen enough; she could feel it. She finished her coffee, set the paper down, and left with a smile on her face.
It worked out.
It always balanced out in the end.