Well, our buddy with the spray can strikes again. This time on the Youth Center. It bugs me that he knows THAT much about our comings and goings. And please, people, spare me yet ANOTHER lecture on the friggin' beard. I KNOW. But it means he cares enough to ask some questions about what Oliver Queen does with his days ( Read more... )

Ouch. Damn ( Read more... )

God I hate it when things go this wrong ( Read more... )

*Oliver walks in the door to his study. He pulls out a note from his desk drawer and checks it, then dials a number.*

Hello? Do I have Sherwood Florist in Gotham City? Who am I speaking to?

I just heard back from Cyborg. It's official: you're going to be a Teen Titan.

We're going to fly down this weekend. You can tag along with the younger Titans. They're going to some kind of museum or something. Then you can stay the rest of the weekend at Titans Tower, and come back Sunday night.

To the anonymous user who has once again gifted me with paid account time, thank you. I hope I do a good job with this journal, and you continue to enjoy reading Watchtower.

Ollie makes his way from the roof to the basement training area slowly, almost gingerly.

Once downstairs, he goes to the first aid cupboard and opens it. He strips off his quiver and shirt, throwing them in a corner. His ribcage looks the worse for wear, and he is bleeding from several scratches on his face.

Feel free to come in, whoever it is.

Brickwell really pulled a number on us. While Connor and I ran around like a pair of sixth-graders on a scavenger hunt, Brickwell just pulled an end-run around us. Big heroes us. And then he kicks my ass like I'm the Johnny-Come-Lately ( Read more... )

What is it about this damn city that attracts ganglords like flies ( Read more... )