Welcome to the Fun House

Agony shoots through Oliver's spine as he goes into consciousness, with perhaps one of the more impressive migraines of his life. While he spent most of his youth hungover, this is nothing like that. Not to mention the fact that he hasn't been that boy in a very long time. Not since the island happened, since he was forced to fight for survival over the last five years.

As that thought comes back to him, he jumps into alertness, eyes opening, his body trying to pull up into a standing position. The pain explodes behind his eyes almost immediately, forcing him back down. "Easy there, killer," a voice calls out, feminine but a little rough around the edges. Her drawl is almost bored, as though his presence in her life is an old development. "The first few minutes hurt like a bitch." There's a pause. "Never really understood that phrase. How does a female dog hurt?" Her voice fades again, as though she realizes she's completely off-topic. "You should probably take it easy—unless you like migraines from hell. Then you should probably keep doing what you're doing."

It takes several minutes before the ache subsides to a manageable level, and he tries opening his eyes again. It hurts, of course, but at least it doesn't make his head feel like exploding would be a kindness. The ceiling above him is smooth and nondescript, giving him little idea of where he is. It's impersonal, which means an office of some sort. More importantly, it is decidedly not the island he came from.

When he turns his head to the side, he's met with a surprisingly young and unfamiliar face. The woman before him has black hair, her heavy eyeshadow and lipstick the same color. A ring is in the left side of her nose and he can see a bar through the top of her right ear. Her lips twist into an almost predatory smile when his eyes meet her blue ones. "Hello, handsome," she says, but it doesn't sound like a compliment in her tone. Then her eyebrows knit together. "You look familiar. Have you ever, by any chance, lost"—she holds up her hands to do air quotes, flashing him black nail polish—"your wallet before?"

Oliver doesn't bother to answer her. He has more pressing questions, ones about the cold blue walls and silver chrome around him. "How long have I been out?" he asks her, his voice raspy with disuse. This place isn't familiar, which means he's probably never been here before in his life. That's more than a little disconcerting; the last time this happened to him, he woke up in Hong Kong with the hospitality of one Amanda Waller. Three meetings with her is more than enough for one lifetime.

She lifts one shoulder, flashing him a leather jacket—black, of course. "Don't know," she says. "You've been here for two days, but they could have grabbed you earlier than that. I lost a week when they snatched me. Lawton said he lost a day. Blondie lost six months or so. I think it depends on how much you fought when they captured you."

With a frustrated huff, Oliver realizes that conversing with this woman is giving him more questions than answers. He pulls himself into a sitting position, only to find something sharp against his throat. A look down reveals a butterfly knife that suits the woman on the other end of it oddly well—delicate and deadly at the same time. The fire in her eyes, though, lets him know she has no qualms about using it.

"While you're just sitting here," she warns him slowly, any hint of pleasantry evaporating off her tone, "there's one thing I need to make abundantly clear. I sleep just across the hall. If you think that's an open invitation for you to do go and see what you can get out of the cookie jar tonight, don't. Because if you try to reach your hand into this particular cookie jar, I'll cut it off. And maybe some other appendages, too. We clear?"

The bravado behind her voice is impressive, but he can tell there's a very real fear—and threat—lurking beneath. Even still, that's a kind of evil that Oliver had once enjoyed killing men for during in short time in Coast City. "I don't want to hurt you," he assures her, holding up his hands.