𝓣𝓱𝓸𝓻𝓷𝓼 • 𝒜𝓇𝓇ℴ𝓌

0.2| 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒜𝓇𝓇𝑜𝓌

-🌹-

Everything had changed.

In the five years he had been gone, Oliver Queen had forgotten almost everything about his home. For a time he had desperately fought to cling to it's memory, holding on to everything and anything that he could. The sounds, the sights, the smell, the very air itself, but eventually it had all slipped away from him, fading into nothing but a dark, hazy dream.

Along with who had been back then.

Oliver Queen was gone. He died five years ago. Someone-something else had risen to take his place.

Someone who would step up and do what needed to be done for the sake of the city. Before it was ripped apart by the poisonous roots that continued to sink deeper with each day, draining the life from everything bit by bit so that they might survive. He would become no more than a living weapon, a tale to be told, a monster to be feared.

He would save his city; if it was the last thing he ever did.

He was certain of that. As he embraced his mother tighter, the sensation of warmth from her now foreign, alien to him, he only became more certain. Everything had changed. Nothing more so than him.

Chloé observed both curiously and carefully, watching as Oliver tightly clung to his mother as though she would fade from his grip any second. A feeling she'd come to be familiar with herself. 'Well, he doesn't seem to be avoiding physical contact.' She noted, turning to Dr Neil Lamb, an older Canadian-Japanese man with short cut grey hair and wise dark eyes, the lead attending of their emergency department with a specialty in Psychiatry, Neurology and General Surgery. 'How extensive were his injuries?'

'Around twenty percent of his body is covered in scar tissue.'

Chloé raised her brows, sounded like he had as many scars as she did.

'Second-degree burns on his back and arms, some of which seem relatively recent. X-rays showed at least twelve fractures that never properly healed.' He explained, holding up folder in his hand which held the X-rays. 'And there's no way of knowing what other kind of trauma's he may have suffered.'

Chloé hummed, 'If he doesn't have PTSD from all that, then he wasn't right in the head to start with.' She took the offered tablet from Dr Lamb. 'I'll do the psychological eval, see if I can get him to open up to me. Page Dr Meadows anyway, she'll probably want to do a more in depth eval herself. When she comes out you talk with Mrs Queen about what she needs to know about trauma and how it's going to take time for him to readjust. He isn't just going to snap back to being who he was before, Oliver as she knew him is gone. But for now let's give them a minute or two more. We'll have plenty of time to look at him. He hasn't seen his mother for five years.'

'Right.' Dr Lamb nodded.

Chloé watching as Moira Queen-Oliver's mother, a well put together, stern looking older woman with fair skin, long pristine styled light blond hair, cold blue eyes dressed in expensive clothing gently directed him to the bed, sitting beside him as they began to talk.

For well over twenty minutes Chloé let them talk, before she knocked on the door as softly as she could and walked in, tablet in hand. 'My apologies for interrupting, Mrs Queen but I've been placed in charge of Oliver's care.' She explained, Moira moving forwards to shake her hand though she stopped when she realized Chloé didn't have a free hand. It was merely a formality though, they'd met before several times now through Walter Steele, the man who was practically her second father and was Moira's current husband.

They'd married three years ago now, though Chloé got the feeling Moira had yet to tell Oliver that, not that she could blame her for that much. It wasn't exactly a casual conversation.