Working With Red

Old Friends. . . and New Enemies?

Updated: 2021.08.21 

The villains in this chapter are mine, and I own everything about them. I just thought it would be cool to put them into this story; hope you like them. 

Seriously, I spent a lot of time on these characters, so if you steal them, I will find you. . . 

Three more days. 

That's how long was left until your first official mission. 

To say you were nervous was an understatement; you were absolutely terrified. Even though you'd been training with Roy for the past week or so, the stress was slowly beginning to weigh down on you even more every day. With early-morning training sessions with Roy, followed by the endless stress of Oliver badgering you about your suit, you felt like the world was purposely sending the idiots after you. 

You were currently training with Roy in the Arrowcave. You were sparring--an actual match--and to Roy's surprise, you were doing exceptionally well. In all honesty, he wasn't too surprised; you had been picking up quickly. Training at least eight hours a day, it was obvious you'd been working hard. While Roy refused to admit it out loud, you looked good. Your muscles were becoming more defined every day, and though you never wore anything less than a tank top--unlike the boisterous redhead who often went shirtless during most of your sessions--he had begun to notice the small set of abs peeking out through the fabric of your shirt. 

You let out a grunt as Roy kicked at you, causing you to fall back on your hands. You immediately flipped back over onto your feet, narrowly bypassing a swing to the face. You countered with a kick to the side, using your forearm to block another swing from Roy and following with a punch to the waist. Roy stumbled backwards, but was able to catch you off guard by grabbing your wrist and pulling you down with him. You shrieked as you were thrown over Roy's shoulder and let out a grunt when you landed on your back. Roy flipped onto you, straddling your waist and pinning both of your arms to the floor. 

After a moment of pointless struggle, you groaned, slamming your head back against the floor. 

"Whatever," you panted as beads of sweat trickled down your face and chest, "you win." Roy smirked, wiping the side of his sweat-covered face on his equally-damp shoulder. 

"One week later, and you still haven't beaten me," he muttered, releasing your arms to fold his own over his bare chest. "I must say, I'm a little disappointed; I thought you said you trained before." You scoffed, mimicking Roy as you folded your arms over your own chest. 

"With firearms," you corrected. "Doesn't make me an expert at hand-to-hand." 

"Well, that much is obvious," Roy murmured, his smirk deepening. "I don't know how long you've been skipping on the training, but it sure as hell hasn't done you any good." 

"We've only been training together for a week," you retorted, scowling. "I'm not going to get as good as you in that small of a time frame!" 

"I didn't expect you to," Roy replied. "Although, while you still suck, you've improved." 

"Thank you for noticing," you muttered back sarcastically. "Have you also noticed I've lost a full six pounds, too?" 

"Six pounds in six days?" Roy asked, cocking an eyebrow. "Enlighten me." 

"Well, you only allow me a plain slice of toast for breakfast, a few carrot sticks and an apple for lunch, and a cold-cut sandwich for dinner; that is, when you actually allow me to eat," you replied as you mockingly counted off the items on your fingers. "I'm sure the ten-hours-a-day training regimen you have me on is helping, too, but--"