# LEAGUE SAFEHOUSE - INDUSTRIAL DISTRICT - LATE NIGHT
The warehouse looked like it had been abandoned sometime during the Reagan administration and forgotten by everyone with functioning eyes. Rusted corrugated metal, windows painted black decades ago, the kind of structure that city inspectors had long since stopped pretending to care about. Urban decay as camouflage.
Inside was a different story entirely.
The main floor had been converted into something that would make military intelligence operatives weep with professional envy—surveillance stations, weapons racks organized with obsessive precision, tactical maps covering entire walls, and enough electronic countermeasures to make the NSA's budget look inadequate.
But it was the basement that told the real story.
Stone walls. No windows. Temperature controlled to exactly 65 degrees Fahrenheit year-round. The kind of space designed for conversations that couldn't be overheard, for training that couldn't be witnessed, for the particular brand of violence that required privacy and soundproofing in equal measure.
Harry Potter—*Al Naaji* in the language that mattered here—stood at the central table with his arms crossed, still wearing the expensive suit he'd worn to dinner. The midnight blue Armani looked absurdly out of place in surroundings designed for tactical operations rather than social functions, but he hadn't bothered changing. There hadn't been time.
At eighteen, Harry had grown into the kind of dangerous elegance that made smart people nervous. All sharp angles and controlled violence, emerald eyes that tracked movement with predatory precision, the particular stillness that came from years of training in places where moving incorrectly got you killed.
He'd removed his tie at some point. Rolled his sleeves to his elbows. Small concessions to the fact that this conversation was going to be long and complicated and probably end with someone wanting to commit murder.
Hermione Granger—*Al Taalib*—occupied the chair across from him, laptop open, fingers flying across keys with the kind of focused intensity that had always defined her approach to problems. Her wild brown curls were pulled back in a severe bun, and she'd changed into tactical gear that suggested she'd come prepared for this meeting to go sideways.
At nineteen, she'd become the kind of brilliant that made people forget she was also the kind of dangerous that could dismantle governments before breakfast. Her brown eyes held depths that spoke to someone who'd learned to weaponize intelligence with the same efficiency most people applied to morning coffee.
"Let me make sure I understand," Hermione said without looking up from her screen, her British accent carrying that particular precision that meant she was processing multiple layers of information simultaneously. "Malcolm Merlyn—Al Sa-her, the League's most talented former student before he went rogue fifteen years ago—is planning to level the Glades using what sounds like a seismic device disguised as urban renewal."
"That's the summary, yes," Sirius confirmed from his position leaning against the weapons rack. At thirty-eight, Sirius Black—*Al Kaalib*—had aged into the kind of dangerous handsomeness that belonged in expensive cologne advertisements or wanted posters. Silver threading through dark hair, lines around grey eyes that somehow made him more attractive, and the coiled tension of someone who'd survived situations specifically designed to kill him.
He'd changed from his surveillance clothes into tactical gear that looked like it had seen considerable use—worn but maintained, functional rather than aesthetic. The kind of equipment that told stories about violence that didn't belong in polite company.
"Malcolm threatened Moira Queen," Sirius continued, his voice carrying that flat quality that came from delivering intelligence reports. "Used her son as leverage to force her back into supporting the Undertaking. Made it clear that walking away isn't an option, that she knows too much, that Oliver's investigation into his father's death will eventually lead directly into collision with their plans."
"And he suspects Oliver is the vigilante," Harry added with grim amusement. "Which is both accurate and problematic, because it means Malcolm's been paying attention to patterns we'd hoped were less obvious."
Hermione's fingers paused over her keyboard. "How certain is he?"
"Certain enough to mention it," Sirius said. "Certain enough to use it as additional leverage against Moira. 'Your son is investigating things that will get him killed, the only way to potentially protect him is to be inside the conspiracy rather than outside it.' That kind of argument."
"Manipulation," Hermione said flatly. "Emotional manipulation wrapped in practical threat assessment."
"Very effective manipulation," Harry corrected. "Because it's not wrong. Oliver is investigating things that will eventually lead to discovering Malcolm murdered his father. Malcolm isn't bluffing about being willing to kill anyone who threatens the Undertaking—he's already demonstrated that by killing Robert Queen and disappearing Walter Steele."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications none of them particularly wanted to examine.
"We need to bring in the others," Hermione said finally, her voice carrying the kind of frustrated certainty that came from wanting to do the right thing while recognizing all the reasons that wasn't possible. "Neville deserves to know what we're dealing with. Oliver needs to understand the scope of what he's walking into. And—"
"No," Harry interrupted with gentle finality.
"Harry—"
"No," he repeated, his voice taking on that particular quality of command that had defined his role as *Al Naaji* during their time with the League. "We've been through this, Hermione. Ra's al Ghul's conditions for our release were very specific—identify what Malcolm Merlyn is planning, determine whether it violates League doctrine, and if so, bring him to face the Demon's Head for judgment."
He moved closer to the table, his presence somehow filling the space despite his relatively lean frame.
"Those conditions explicitly forbid disclosing our continued League affiliation to anyone not bound by League oaths," Harry continued with patient firmness. "Oliver isn't League. Neville isn't League. Daphne and Susan aren't League. They think we're former members who walked away three years ago. They can't know that we're still operationally active, that we report to Ra's, that this entire situation is a League mission disguised as personal choice."
"It's not right," Hermione said with frustrated conviction. "Lying to people we care about, keeping them ignorant of threats they need to understand, operating under false pretenses while they trust us with their lives—it's not right, Harry."
"I know," Harry said quietly, and the weight of genuine regret in his voice made it clear he wasn't dismissing her concerns. "I hate it too. I hate lying to Daphne and Susan about where I was last month when I was actually in Nanda Parbat reporting on Malcolm's movements. I hate that Neville thinks we're building new lives when we're actually still bound to the League for another two years. I hate all of it."
He paused, emerald eyes meeting Hermione's brown ones with uncomfortable honesty.
"But hating it doesn't change our obligations," Harry continued with terrible calm. "We made a deal with Ra's al Ghul—three years of continued service in exchange for being allowed to leave the League with our lives and our secrets intact. We're eighteen months into that contract. We can't break it now without consequences that would destroy everything we've built here."
"And if Oliver gets killed because we withheld information that could have saved him?" Hermione pressed with sharp intensity. "If Neville dies because we didn't warn him about Malcolm's plans? If our silence makes us complicit in the Undertaking's success? What then, Harry? How do we live with that?"
"The same way we've lived with everything else the League required of us," Harry replied with bleak honesty. "By recognizing that some choices are impossible and making them anyway. By accepting that sometimes protecting the people we love means keeping secrets that hurt them. By understanding that our obligations to Ra's supersede our personal relationships—regardless of how much that costs us."
Sirius cleared his throat with the kind of diplomatic intervention that suggested he'd been watching this argument build for weeks and had decided to redirect before it became something that couldn't be walked back.
"For what it's worth," Sirius said carefully, "I agree with both of you. Hermione's right that withholding information from Oliver puts him at risk. Harry's right that disclosing our League affiliation violates our contract with Ra's in ways that would have consequences for everyone—not just us, but everyone we care about."
He moved to the tactical map covering the east wall—detailed layout of Starling City with various locations marked in colors that corresponded to League intelligence classifications.
"The question isn't whether we tell them," Sirius continued with professional assessment. "The question is how we protect them without revealing information we're contractually forbidden from sharing. How we guide Oliver away from collision with Malcolm without explaining why we know Malcolm is planning mass murder. How we keep Neville safe without disclosing that we're still operationally active League members conducting a sanctioned mission."
"Navigation through omission," Hermione said with bitter recognition. "One of Ra's al Ghul's favorite teaching methods. Don't lie directly—just carefully manage what truths you share and when you share them."
"Exactly," Harry confirmed. "We don't tell Oliver that Malcolm Merlyn is planning to destroy the Glades. We do tell him that we've discovered concerning patterns in Frank Bertinelli's organization that suggest larger conspiracy. We don't reveal that we're hunting Al Sa-her on behalf of the League. We do help Oliver investigate his father's death in ways that happen to align with our mission parameters."
He paused, his expression carrying the particular weight of someone making decisions they knew were morally compromised but tactically necessary.
"Truth through misdirection," Harry continued with quiet certainty. "Protection through careful information management. Keeping people safe while maintaining operational security that serves objectives they can't know exist."
"I hate this," Hermione said again, though her tone suggested acceptance rather than continued argument. "I hate that we're good at it. I hate that it makes sense. I hate that three years with the League taught us to be comfortable with exactly this kind of moral compromise."
"So do I," Harry agreed with heartbreaking sincerity. "But hating it doesn't make it wrong. Sometimes the people you love most are the people you can't be honest with—because honesty would destroy them or destroy you or destroy the fragile circumstances keeping everyone alive."
Sirius nodded agreement, his grey eyes distant with memories that clearly still carried weight.
"Rebecca used to say," Sirius said quietly, referring to his dead wife with the kind of careful tone that suggested the wound had scarred but never quite healed, "that love without honesty was just another form of manipulation. That keeping secrets from people you cared about was fundamentally disrespectful regardless of how protective your motivations were."
He paused, his expression complicated.
"She was right, of course," Sirius continued with dark humor. "She was right about most things, which was simultaneously her most attractive quality and her most infuriating. But being right doesn't mean being correct—sometimes circumstances require choices that violate principles you'd prefer to maintain."
"Like lying to your godson about still being active in an organization that trains assassins," Hermione said with pointed observation.
"Like that, yes," Sirius confirmed without defensiveness. "Like watching Harry grow up thinking I'd left the League when I was actually maintaining contact, conducting missions, reporting to Ra's on matters that affected League interests. Like being Uncle Sirius while also being Al Kaalib—two identities that couldn't coexist honestly but had to coexist practically."
He moved to stand beside Harry at the tactical table, his presence somehow both supportive and challenging.
"Harry's right about operational security," Sirius said with professional certainty. "We can't disclose our League affiliation. But Hermione's also right that withholding information puts Oliver at risk. So we find the middle ground—we protect him through strategic intelligence sharing that happens to serve our mission parameters while not revealing the actual source or scope of our knowledge."
"Strategic intelligence sharing," Hermione repeated with dry amusement. "Is that what we're calling lying to our friends now?"
"We're calling it survival," Harry corrected gently. "Survival for us, survival for them, survival for everyone who depends on us maintaining the careful fiction that we're former League members building normal lives rather than active operatives serving out contracted obligations."
He pulled up additional files on Hermione's laptop—surveillance photos, financial records, communication intercepts that had clearly been gathered through methods that weren't strictly legal.
"Malcolm Merlyn's pattern suggests the Undertaking is scheduled for sometime in the next six to eight months," Harry said, shifting into tactical briefing mode. "He's been acquiring materials, positioning resources, eliminating potential obstacles. The seismic device—assuming Sirius correctly interpreted what he overheard—requires components that have very specific sourcing requirements."
"Earthquake generator," Hermione said, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she pulled up technical specifications. "Applied Sciences division at Queen Consolidated developed a prototype five years ago for disaster relief purposes. Theoretical device capable of generating localized seismic activity through harmonic resonance frequencies. Project was shelved after Robert Queen died because the potential for weaponization was deemed too high."
"Malcolm has access to Queen Consolidated resources," Sirius added grimly. "Through Moira's involvement in the Undertaking, through his own business relationships, through fifteen years of carefully positioned influence throughout Starling City's corporate infrastructure. If the device exists, he can access it. If it doesn't exist yet, he has the resources to complete development."
"So we're looking at actual earthquake-based genocide," Harry said with terrible calm. "Not metaphorical destruction, not gradual economic devastation, but literal seismic activity designed to collapse the Glades' infrastructure and kill everyone who can't evacuate quickly enough."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"How many people live in the Glades?" Hermione asked quietly.
"Conservative estimate? Fifty thousand," Sirius replied. "Actual number including undocumented residents, transient populations, people who don't show up in census data? Probably closer to seventy-five thousand. Entire families, Hermione. Children. People whose only crime was being poor in a city that decided poverty was the same as expendability."
"And Malcolm thinks this is justified," Harry said, his voice carrying disgust that went deeper than strategic disapproval. "Thinks that murdering seventy-five thousand people is acceptable urban renewal. That genocide is just aggressive city planning with unfortunate but necessary casualties."
"He wouldn't be the first," Hermione observed with bitter recognition. "History is full of people who convinced themselves that mass murder served greater good. That eliminating 'undesirable populations' was somehow doing the world a favor."
"History is also full of people who stopped them," Harry countered with quiet intensity. "People who recognized that no amount of strategic benefit justified that kind of horror. People who chose to intervene regardless of personal cost or tactical complications."
"People like us," Sirius said with grim certainty.
"People like us," Harry agreed.
Hermione closed her laptop with deliberate finality. "So what's the plan? How do we stop Malcolm Merlyn from destroying the Glades, fulfill our contract with Ra's al Ghul, and protect Oliver from discovering truths that would get him killed—all while maintaining the fiction that we're normal people building normal lives?"
Harry's smile was sharp enough to draw blood. "We do what we've always done. We lie, we manipulate, we carefully manage information flow to serve multiple agendas simultaneously. We become exactly the kind of people Ra's al Ghul trained us to be—operatives who can maintain cover identities while conducting missions that serve objectives our friends can't know exist."
"And if Oliver discovers we're lying to him?" Hermione pressed. "If Neville figures out we're still League? If Daphne and Susan realize that our relationship is built on foundations that include systematic dishonesty about fundamental aspects of our identities?"
"Then we deal with those consequences when they happen," Harry said with resigned acceptance. "But until then, we do what's necessary to keep them alive—even if that means they hate us for it later. Even if it means sacrificing relationships we value to prevent catastrophes they can't comprehend."
He paused, emerald eyes reflecting the tactical map's harsh lighting.
"Ra's al Ghul taught me something important," Harry continued quietly. "He taught me that love isn't always enough. That caring about people sometimes requires doing things they'll never forgive you for. That protection occasionally demands betrayal of the very trust you're trying to preserve."
"That's a terrible lesson," Hermione said with heartbreaking honesty.
"It's a true lesson," Harry corrected gently. "Which is what makes it terrible. Truth and comfort aren't always compatible, Hermione. Sometimes you have to choose between being honest with people and keeping them alive. I choose alive. Every time. Regardless of what it costs me personally."
Sirius nodded slowly, his grey eyes carrying the weight of similar choices made during his own time navigating the impossible space between League obligations and personal relationships.
"So we proceed with the mission," Sirius said with professional finality. "We gather intelligence on Malcolm's plans. We identify the Undertaking's timeline, resources, and vulnerabilities. We position ourselves to stop it when the moment's right—in ways that serve League objectives while also protecting seventy-five thousand people from seismic genocide."
"And we do all of it," Hermione added with bitter certainty, "while lying to people we love about why we're really here. While pretending we're building futures when we're actually serving contracts. While maintaining cover identities that require us to be less than honest about fundamental aspects of who we are."
"Yes," Harry confirmed simply. "Because the alternative—letting Malcolm succeed because we prioritized honesty over operational security—isn't actually an alternative at all. It's just different flavor of catastrophic failure."
He moved to the weapons rack, selecting throwing knives with the kind of casual expertise that spoke to thousands of hours of training. The blades were League standard—perfectly balanced, designed for both throwing and close combat, the kind of weapon that could kill silently if necessary.
"Malcolm Merlyn is Al Sa-her," Harry said, testing the weight of each blade before sliding them into concealed sheaths. "The Sorcerer. The League's most talented student before Ra's al Ghul and I had our... disagreement about methodology. He's brilliant, ruthless, and has fifteen years' head start on planning this operation."
"But he's also arrogant," Sirius added with professional assessment. "He thinks he's the smartest person in every room. Thinks his plans are too sophisticated for anyone to dismantle. That kind of confidence creates blind spots."
"Blind spots we can exploit," Hermione finished, already pulling up additional files. "If we're smart about it. If we're patient. If we're willing to do things that will haunt us later but serve immediate tactical necessity."
"Story of our lives," Harry said with dark humor. "Do terrible things now, process trauma later, hope that eventually the people we care about understand why we made the choices we made."
"And if they don't understand?" Hermione asked quietly.
Harry's expression was complicated—resignation mixed with determination, acceptance of costs that couldn't be avoided.
"Then at least they're alive to hate us for it," he said simply. "That's the best I can offer, Hermione. Not happiness, not understanding, not comfortable resolution. Just survival for people we love even if survival means they eventually realize we were never quite who they thought we were."
The basement fell into contemplative silence, three former—*current*—League of Assassins operatives processing the weight of obligations that required systematic dishonesty toward the people they cared about most.
"I miss when things were simple," Hermione said finally, her voice carrying exhaustion that went deeper than physical fatigue. "When the biggest moral complication was whether to hex Malfoy or just let karma handle him."
"Things were never simple," Harry corrected with gentle amusement. "We just didn't realize how complicated they were until we'd already committed to courses of action that couldn't be walked back."
"Youth and poor judgment," Sirius agreed with rueful wisdom. "The foundation of every terrible decision I've ever made."
"Speaking of terrible decisions," Hermione said, "we need to establish communication protocols. If we're going to coordinate operations while maintaining cover identities, we need systems that don't raise suspicion when we suddenly disappear for League business."
"Already handled," Harry replied, producing three phones from a secured drawer. "Encrypted, untraceable, programmed with emergency protocols that activate if any of us miss scheduled check-ins. One for each of us. Don't turn them on unless you're in secured location or actively conducting League business."
He distributed the phones with practiced efficiency—Sirius first, then Hermione, keeping one for himself.
"Standard League protocols apply," Harry continued with professional precision. "Check-ins every seventy-two hours unless operational circumstances prevent it. Emergency beacon if you're compromised. Dead drop locations throughout the city if electronic communication becomes unsafe. Extraction procedures if cover identities are blown."
"Just like old times," Sirius observed with dark humor.
"Exactly like old times," Harry confirmed. "Because that's what we are, really. League operatives pretending to be civilians, conducting missions while wearing the comfortable fiction of normal lives like particularly well-tailored disguises."
"I hate that you're right about that," Hermione said with frustrated acceptance.
"So do I," Harry admitted. "But hating truth doesn't make it false. We're League. We've always been League. We just have the luxury of pretending otherwise when circumstances permit."
He moved back to the tactical table, studying the map with the kind of focused intensity that meant he was already planning operations that wouldn't be shared with anyone outside this room.
"Sirius, you maintain surveillance on Moira Queen," Harry directed with command authority. "She's our primary intelligence source on Malcolm's plans, and she's vulnerable to manipulation now that he's threatened Oliver. We need to know if she capitulates to his pressure or maintains her refusal to participate."
"Copy that," Sirius confirmed. "Though I should mention that continued surveillance of Queen Manor requires resources that might raise questions if anyone's paying attention to my financial patterns."
"Use League accounts," Harry said simply. "Ra's authorized full operational funding for this mission. We have effectively unlimited resources as long as we can justify expenses as serving mission parameters."
"Unlimited resources for stopping seismic genocide," Hermione said with dry amusement. "How generous of the Demon's Head."
"Ra's al Ghul cares about League doctrine more than individual lives," Harry replied with clinical honesty. "But League doctrine prohibits mass destruction of civilian populations without strategic necessity. Malcolm's planning genocide for personal vendetta reasons—Rebecca's death, his need to 'cleanse' the city that killed her. That makes it a doctrine violation that requires League intervention."
"So we're not actually doing this to save seventy-five thousand people," Hermione observed. "We're doing it because Malcolm broke League rules about acceptable targets."
"We're doing it for both reasons," Harry corrected gently. "Ra's sanctioned the mission because Malcolm violated doctrine. We're executing it because genocide is wrong regardless of whether it violates organizational policy. Motivations can be complicated, Hermione. Outcomes are what matter."
"Convenient philosophy when you're trying to feel good about serving assassin cult," Hermione muttered.
"Not trying to feel good," Harry said with quiet intensity. "Trying to stop mass murder while fulfilling obligations I can't escape. Those things aren't mutually exclusive even if they're morally complicated."
Sirius cleared his throat again, redirecting before the philosophical discussion could spiral further.
"What about Oliver?" Sirius asked practically. "How do we protect him from collision with Malcolm without revealing what we know?"
"We guide him," Harry said with strategic certainty. "Carefully, subtly, in ways that seem like natural investigation rather than manufactured direction. He's already investigating his father's death. We just... ensure that investigation leads toward conclusions that serve our mission parameters."
"Manipulation," Hermione said flatly.
"Strategic guidance," Harry corrected. "With Oliver's consent regarding the investigation itself, just without complete transparency about why we're encouraging certain lines of inquiry."
"Still manipulation," Hermione insisted.
"Yes," Harry agreed without defensiveness. "It is. And it's necessary anyway, because the alternative is letting him stumble into confrontation with Malcolm before he's ready—before he has resources, allies, understanding of what he's actually facing."
He paused, emerald eyes reflecting determination that had defined his entire approach to impossible situations.
"I'd rather manipulate Oliver and keep him alive," Harry said with terrible calm, "than be completely honest and attend his funeral. That's the choice, Hermione. Not between good options, but between terrible ones. I choose the terrible option that results in fewer deaths."
"Even if it means he eventually realizes we were never quite who he thought we were," Hermione said softly.
"Even then," Harry confirmed. "Because I can live with Oliver hating me for lying to him. I can't live with Oliver dying because I prioritized honesty over operational necessity."
The weight of that statement settled over the basement like heavy fog. All three of them had made similar choices before—during the war, during their time with the League, during the eighteen months they'd spent maintaining cover identities while conducting missions in Starling City.
Some conversations didn't provide comfortable resolutions.
Some choices were just various flavors of damnation, dressed up in strategic necessity and served with classified intelligence.
And some nights you realized that the people you loved most were the people you couldn't be honest with—because honesty would destroy the fragile circumstances keeping everyone alive.
"Right," Hermione said finally, reopening her laptop with renewed purpose. "If we're doing this—if we're really committing to systematic deception of everyone we care about while conducting League mission disguised as personal choice—then we do it properly. Full intelligence gathering, complete tactical planning, zero sloppiness that might compromise cover identities."
"Agreed," Harry said with evident relief that she'd moved from philosophical objection to practical execution. "Hermione, you handle electronic surveillance and financial tracking. Malcolm's acquiring resources for the Undertaking—components, personnel, strategic positioning. Those acquisitions leave trails. Find them."
"On it," Hermione confirmed, fingers already flying across her keyboard.
"Sirius, you maintain physical surveillance on key players," Harry continued with command precision. "Moira Queen, Malcolm Merlyn, anyone involved in Undertaking planning or execution. We need eyes on their movements, their meetings, their vulnerability windows."
"Copy," Sirius said with professional acknowledgment.
"I'll handle infiltration of Malcolm's organization," Harry finished. "Get close to his operations, identify structural weaknesses, position myself to sabotage the Undertaking when the moment's right. It's going to require... flexibility regarding my relationship with Daphne and Susan."
"Meaning?" Hermione asked with sharp attention.
"Meaning I'll need to occasionally disappear for days at a time without explanation," Harry said with visible reluctance. "Meaning they're going to ask questions I can't answer honestly. Meaning our relationship is about to be tested in ways that aren't fair to them but are necessary for mission success."
"They care about you," Hermione said quietly. "Both of them. Deeply. This is going to hurt them, Harry."
"I know," Harry replied with heartbreaking honesty. "But the alternative is letting Malcolm destroy the Glades, which would hurt significantly more people significantly worse. I'll take personal relationship damage over mass casualties. Every time. Regardless of what it costs me."
"Just remember," Sirius said with the wisdom of someone who'd made similar choices, "that costs accumulate. That eventually you have to pay them all at once. That maintaining cover identities while conducting operations that require systematic dishonesty... that comes due eventually."
"I know," Harry said again. "But eventually is future Harry's problem. Present Harry needs to stop seismic genocide while fulfilling League contract. Future Harry can deal with relationship consequences after everyone's still alive to have those conversations."
"Future Harry is going to hate you," Hermione observed.
"Future Harry can join the club," Harry replied with dark humor. "I suspect it's going to have quite extensive membership by the time this is all over."
As the three League operatives settled into detailed mission planning—surveillance schedules, communication protocols, contingency procedures for when things inevitably went sideways—each of them processed the weight of obligations that required systematic betrayal of the people they cared about most.
Some secrets were necessary.
Some lies served purposes that transcended personal relationships.
And some nights you realized that being good at terrible things didn't make you a terrible person—it just made you someone capable of doing what needed to be done when comfortable people chose moral purity over practical necessity.
The League of Assassins had taught them that.
They'd rejected it when they'd tried to leave.
But rejection and wrongness, they were discovering, weren't always the same thing.
Sometimes the monsters were right about the methods.
They were just wrong about the targets.
And sometimes, the people trying to be heroes discovered that heroism required exactly the kind of moral compromise they'd spent years claiming to reject.
Outside, Starling City slept.
Inside the basement, three people who'd learned to be weapons in service of causes they couldn't fully support were planning to prevent genocide while lying to everyone who trusted them about fundamental aspects of their identities.
Some missions were impossible.
Some obligations required sacrifices that couldn't be justified to the people who'd eventually pay the cost.
And some nights you accepted that love wasn't enough—that caring about people sometimes required doing things they'd never forgive you for.
That protection occasionally demanded betrayal of the very trust you were trying to preserve.
That's what the League had taught them.
That's what they were about to put into practice.
And that's what would eventually destroy the comfortable fiction that they were anything other than exactly what they'd always been:
Assassins playing at being heroes.
Weapons pretending to be people.
League operatives maintaining cover identities that were becoming increasingly difficult to distinguish from the lives they were supposedly just pretending to live.
The difference between pretending and being was thinner than most people wanted to believe.
And considerably easier to cross than anyone comfortable with themselves would ever admit.
But then, neither Harry Potter nor Hermione Granger nor Sirius Black had been comfortable with themselves in a very long time.
They were too busy being other things.
Necessary things.
Terrible things.
Things that wore expensive suits and fell in love and built relationships with people who had no idea they were sleeping beside weapons that occasionally remembered how to be human.
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