Oliver Queen's time undercover in Russia wasn't easy. He hurt, and bled, and broke. But it was worth it, because it brought him her- his Anastasia. It seems only right that her name means 'resurrection', because she's the one who brought Oliver back...
A/N: I'm a firm believer that Oliver's decision to not kill- despite the fact that the people he's facing are very bad people- weakens him and allows for those opponents to hurt more innocents. So Oliver will, while still growing as a person, remain willing to do what needs to be done throughout this rewrite. Especially since Anastasia is a literal assassin.
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*Unedited, you've been warned.*
The air is thick with humidity, the sky overcast and the weak amount of sunlight shining through the clouds washes the whole island in a dreary gray. The only other colors decorating the small, isolated, land is the dark green of the trees and the vibrant flash of red darting through them. The man in the lead blends in, his green leathers melding smoothly with their surroundings and rendering him almost invisible, but his companion is impossible to miss. Her hair is long, and shockingly red, liquid fire tumbling around her shoulders and setting her apart from the forest around them. She's dressed in black, a skin tight catsuit clinging to her curves and providing her with the freedom of uninhibited movement.
The man is dressed in all green, leather pants stretching across his muscled thighs and a long sleeved hooded shirt that's composed of leather up to his pectorals, where a suede material takes over. While his outfit seems almost reasonable for a man stranded on a deserted island, her's is smooth and flawless. It doesn't blend in and is obviously expensive, making her a bit of an anachronism. Their booted feet pound over the leaf covered ground, the couple only slowing when they reach a rocky outcropping that stretches out over the barren beach and then drops off sharply, the beach's sandy expanse only decorated by a large wood pyre. The two drop into a crouch right along the tree line, far enough out on the outcropping to see their target, but not so far that they lose the safety the trees provide.
"Там," (There) the redhead points out a fishing boat buoying over the waves offshore, close enough that she can see the rust decorating it.
"I see it." Her companion replies, his too long hair and beard blowing around the sides of his hood with the salty breeze. It's going to rain. He drops his shoulder so the quiver slung across it slides off, dropping onto the ground in front of him. His long, deft fingers pull out a single arrow and strike it roughly against a nearby stone so it sparks and then catches fire. He quickly nocks the arrow and, taking less than a millisecond to aim, lets it fly. They watch as it slices through the air in a clean arc before landing amongst the wooden pyre, a few seconds passing before a bright explosion ignites the wood. Neither one of them moves as the bright flames seem to dissipate the dreary gray that had been washing them out, the heat of the blast radiating across the beach and over their skin. They both release a breath when the rickety fishing boat notices their signal, turning to cut through the choppy waves and towards two lost souls who are finally ready to be found.
