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raywritesthings · 4 years

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Fade In, Fade Out 1/2

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Earth 2 Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Quentin Lance, Barry Allen Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: Pretending to be her deceased doppelganger has as many drawbacks as it does benefits, so Black Siren decides it’s time to really switch things up on her enemies and allies alike. Oliver is confronted with his true feelings once again and must finally make a choice. *Can be read on my AO3 or FFN, links are in bio*

Laurel Lance, formerly of Earth 2, had a problem. Well, several problems. Actually, they were all the same problems she’d had before, only now they were even more compounded by the precarious position she’d placed herself in. Namely, impersonating a dead woman.

It had been the best way to ensure she could no longer be held by this or that group in this or that cell. She’d been tired and hurting and so, so fed up with it all. So she’d let herself finally do the one thing she’d been avoiding for almost two years now: be seen.

Now she was Laurel Lance, miraculously rescued darling of Star City. A former ADA with a sterling reputation and a loving family and friends. How nice.

While it had bought her a temporary reprieve, it was clear this had not solved all her problems the way she’d hoped it might. Diaz was still sending his men sniffing around to threaten her and her doppelganger’s father. The bitch in the Black Canary suit was still breathing down her neck, probably barely holding back thanks to her team. And this Earth’s Oliver was continuing his sanctimonious bull about caring one minute then pulling back the next and pretending as if they were perfect strangers.

He was worried she was going to ruin his Laurel’s reputation. Maybe she should, since he’d pretty thoroughly wrecked her own image of Ollie, try as she might to maintain him in her mind. But doing anything too out of character for this Earth’s Laurel would just put her right back into danger.

Her old way of doing things had lacked security, but now it was hard for her to make any kind of move thanks to public scrutiny. She needed to be able to get away; a new fresh start on this godforsaken Earth. But she needed to keep Diaz and all her other enemies looking one way while she snuck off in the other direction. But how to do it?

And then, it turned out, the opportunity presented itself.

Quentin, her doppelganger’s father, took a call late one night. It was from this Earth’s Thea Queen, who was apparently saying goodbye.

“And Nyssa thinks there’s more of these Pits? Well that’s, that’s something… I’ve never even heard of these places you’re saying. Ojos del — well, whatever you said. And where’s that Kamchatka, that sounds — oh, Russia. Yeah, I wouldn’t have guessed that. Well, you’ll be seeing a lot more of the world than most people do.”

Laurel sat there, not really reading the law book he had pressed on her for the umpteenth time. If they were talking about a Pit, was this that magic Pit thing that wasn’t supposed to exist anymore? The one that brought people back from the dead or whatever? The dead were dead, no matter if you came to a whole separate Earth and met them again.

That’s something, he’d said, with such a wistful tone to his voice. She knew exactly what he was thinking, and it burned in her gut, angry and jealous despite it all. If he wanted his Laurel back, why didn’t he go do it instead of trying to force her to be her? Ugh, it sounded confusing even in her own head.

But as she glowered across the room at him while he talked to the other Thea on that phone, she took him in. Old, thin, frail as he was, he could never make that kind of journey. Great, now she was feeling pity, too.

The more she thought about it, though, the more she realized that these Pits still being active was something. Something that could help her, too. If she wanted everyone’s eyes off her, why not give them something else to look at? Watch the birdie.

Laurel took out her phone and made liberal use of autocorrect and suggested search to find the information she needed about Kamchatka. Then she started searching for plane tickets.

Later, after Quentin was sleeping, Laurel went out that night to the cemetery with a shovel, hoping to God this wasn’t part of some officer’s beat. There was nothing much she could do once she’d dug up the casket besides shovel the dirt back on top and pack it down. Maybe people would assume the casket had been removed since she wasn’t supposed to be underground anymore. And now her doppelganger wasn’t either.

Getting her on a plane wasn’t too difficult, but God was she glad she’d borrowed some money from Quentin so she could hire some help to carry the thing up the mountain.

“I want to see the springs,” she told her guides. “The ones off the beaten path. You know what I mean, right?” If there were rumors about these Pits, they had to come from somewhere.

The two exchanged glances. “No one goes to those springs now.”

“And why not?” Damnit, had the idiots already destroyed this one?

“There are men. They guard the springs jealously.”

Oh. The other guys. Right. Tommy’s weird evil dad’s minions or whatever.

Laurel shrugged. “I think I can handle myself. You two wait here with my birdcage.” Leaving them to exchange perplexed glances, Laurel turned and continued her march through the mountain range.

It was funny. She could have wandered around here for days without finding it, except that, two hours into that, out of the shadows leapt a man in ninja gear. That kind of blew the whole thing, didn’t it?

Laurel knocked him right off the cliff with her scream, then twisted the arm of his buddy who tried to attack her from behind, getting possession of his sword and stabbing him in the gut with it. He dropped to his knees, cursing in some foreign tongue while Laurel examines her new sword.

“Not my style, usually, but I think I’m gonna keep this. Thanks.”

He didn’t reply. Probably because he was dead. Well, she’d at least made this easier for Speedy and Friends whenever they showed up.

She found the casket abandoned on the path by the time she got back. Huh. Maybe she should have paid those guys extra. Quentin wasn’t made of money, though. No matter how much he was going to owe her once this whole thing was done.

Few things sucked more than carrying a dead body up a mountain by yourself. One of the things that did suck more was carrying a dead body that looked exactly like you up a mountain by yourself. Laurel did her best to keep her eyes on the path as she put one step forward after the other. When she finally found the crevice in the rocks that led into the springs, she sighed in relief.

This was definitely the place. The ninjas had set up a small encampment to the side of the cave, and in the center bubbled a mysterious-looking water.

“This better work,” Laurel muttered to herself, then unceremoniously dumped the body into the waters with a splash that had her quickly backing away to avoid the droplets.

What would it be like, meeting the fabled Perfect Laurel? Was it rose-tinted glasses that had everyone on this Earth making her out to be a saint?

She paced the edge, waiting for some kind of sign she hadn’t been duped. The waters had gone totally still. What the hell was she going to have to do, fish her doppelganger out? She hadn’t even brought a net.

Then the waters started bubbling again like someone had flipped the switch for the hydro-jets. She slowed, laying a hand on the hilt of her new sword.

With no warning, the previously dead body made an impossible leap from the waters, landing in a crouch with her hair hanging in her face like a wet curtain.

“Shit,” Laurel breathed to herself.

Her doppelganger’s head snapped up, eyes wild and mouth snarling. Certainly nothing like a saint. She had a split second to recognize the pulling back of her lips for what it was before she was ducking to avoid a sonic scream. She retaliated, catching her disoriented doppelganger in the side and sending her rolling across the cave floor. She didn’t get up.

Laurel listened to make sure they hadn’t caused some kind of cave-in, but it sounded like the rock was holding. Then she crept over to see if she’d accidentally killed the other woman again. The rise and fall of her chest said she was still breathing. Good.

What the hell had the whole wild woman act been, though? Was it permanent? What was she going to do with her if it was?

It was weird watching herself. Laurel paced to the other side of the Pit and stood against the wall, waiting.

She’d give her doppelganger half an hour before she just placed the return plane ticket at her feet and took off.

---

Laurel, always of Earth 1 and formerly dead, shivered as she came to, rolling onto her side and curling in on herself with cold. She was soaked to the skin and exposed to the open air of whatever this place was. Her ears were also ringing. She shook her head, feeling her damp hair sticking to the side of her face.

“Ugh.”

“You said it.”

Laurel blinked and looked around. How had she heard her own voice come from another direction?

Leaning against a rocky wall was her. Or, it looked exactly like her. “What is this?” Was it some kind of illusion? A person that could mimic appearances. Though while this other her was dressed in sensible gear for what looked like hiking a mountain, she discovered she was in one of her nicer but rather thin dresses. God, it was freezing.

“What do you remember?” The other her asked.

“Talking to Oliver?” She’d been trying to encourage him, because she’d known he was probably beating himself up about her getting hurt, and then everything went kind of fuzzy after that. She thought she could remember him shouting for someone…

“Ugh, of course you do,” the other her said, rolling her eyes. “Okay, basically you’ve been dead for about two years—”

“Wait, what?”

“And I just brought you back. You’re welcome! Only took your own doppelganger from another Earth to get the job done.”

Her doppelganger. That’s what this was. So she was from Earth 2, she was pretty sure Team Flash had called it. Where they there now? It would explain why there was what had to be a Lazarus Pit to the right of her even though Nyssa had destroyed the one at Nanda Parbat.

“Why did you bring me back?” There was something about this other her’s attitude that suggested it wasn’t strictly out of the kindness of her heart. She reminded Laurel uncomfortably of some of her worst behaviors in the midst of her spiral.

Her doppelganger smiled, and it definitely wasn’t nice. “Smart question. See, I’ve been trying to live my life on this Earth for the last almost two years, but things keep getting in the way. Mostly the people from your life. So I figure if I give them you back, they won’t keep bothering me. We’re even, see?”

There was so much she wasn’t being told, and she wished that wasn’t an old feeling. “You’ve been pretending to be me?”

“Only for a little bit. Hey, at least you don’t have to come up with a story for the press as to how you’re still alive. Someone can fill you in on the cover. I’m heading out of here and do not follow me.” Her doppelganger hefted a duffle bag higher on her shoulder.

“How am I supposed to get home from wherever this is?” She gestured down again her bare feet and lack of possessions.

The other her grumbled impatiently. “Here, take some of this stuff.” She grabbed a pair of black boots and a League-standard tunic from a small pile near the other end of the cave they were in. Laurel hurried to put both on, not really caring to ask who they typically belonged to when it meant she could finally warm up a little.

A passport hit her in the face. Then a printed out boarding pass came flying, which she caught before it could smack her as well.

“Tag, you’re it,” her double said. “And I guess you can have your dad’s credit card back.”

Laurel straightened back up. “You stole his—”

“Of course I did. I’m getting his precious daughter back for him, so what’s he going to miss a few hundred bucks for? I only bought plane tickets and a guided tour, calm down.”

Laurel did not calm down, and instead marched over to her double and snatched the card from her lose grasp. “You might think the snarky act helps protect you from other people hurting you, but let me tell you from experience that it just hurts worse watching everyone walk away.”

Her double glared, leaning into her space. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“I am you. Or I was.” Laurel shook her head. “Why have you even been staying on this Earth? Haven’t you got your own?”

“And nothing there to return to.” She could see in the mirror image of her own eyes a deep-set pain and sadness. Laurel wanted desperately to ask, but she had a feeling she wasn’t supposed to be seeing it at all.

They stared at each other for a long moment.

“Look, there’s no point to this. We can’t both be you, unless we want to pretend you’ve been lying about being an identical twin your whole life,” her doppelganger finally said. “I’m leaving. Wait five minutes, then head down the mountain path. There’s a little touristy station set up at the bottom, and they can direct you to the airport.”

“You’re really just going to lay low the rest of your life on some totally strange Earth?”

“About the only option I have left. Believe me, I’m looking forward to semi-retirement.” With that, her double turned and walked out of the cave, with not even a snarky goodbye to show for it. Laurel winced; she’d been pretending to be her? Did the others know, or did they all think she’d come back from the dead with that attitude?

She had no watch, so Laurel guessed at five minutes and headed down the path. Sure enough, the tourist trap at the bottom of the mountain did have information on transportation to the nearest airport. She also discovered she was in Eastern Russia.

Laurel prioritized getting to the airport over getting access to a phone. Her flight was pre-scheduled, after all. She bought some new clothes for herself before boarding so she didn’t have to come into the Star City airport looking like a terrorist. Thankfully, her father hadn’t cancelled his credit card. She’d pay him back, assuming she still had a job.

She couldn’t believe she was really back from the dead. Around nothing but strangers, it didn’t feel real. She also couldn’t sense anything like the bloodlust Thea had had, but she wasn’t really experiencing anything that might trigger her anger. But she’d need to figure out if there was a way to get more of that Lotus sooner rather than later.

Thea, her father, the team and Ollie, how were all of them? What had she missed in her years of being dead? Did they miss her or think about her at all? It would be selfish of her to wonder if Oliver ever thought about what she’d confessed to him, right? Even she’d known that was nothing but a memory now. Hopefully he and everyone else were just happy and safe, at least as much as they could be in their line of work.

She followed her fellow passengers out into the Star City airport, breathing a little easier now that she knew she was back in her home. No matter how much she or it changed, she’d always feel that way.

Laurel started looking for a help desk, but a hand landed on her upper arm before she could take more than two steps.

“Let’s go.”

Laurel froze. “Ollie?”

He looked about the same as she remembered. It had only been two years, after all. But his expression was guarded, even hostile as he looked down at her. She almost wanted to draw back from him.

“Quentin called. Whatever you’ve been setting up in Russia, you’re going to tell me and him.”

“I wasn’t setting anything up. I just came back to life.” It was occurring to her that he thought she was her own doppelganger, that this dislike and distrust wasn’t really for her. “I’m the real me, Oliver. I’m not the other Earth one.”

His eyes widened for a second, before he shut down again. “Come on.�� He yanked on her arm to get her moving.

He thought she was lying. Well, they were going to see her father, apparently, so she could just convince them both at the same time. It figured her own doppelganger would leave her a mess to clean up.

---

Oliver didn’t trust himself to speak as he guided her out to the car. The fact that she wanted to try this game again, fooling him, was proof that he’d been right to doubt her attempt to turn over a new leaf. God, what was she planning to do to Laurel’s reputation? Her legacy?

“Ollie, please,” she said as he turned the key in the ignition. “I’m telling the truth. One minute, I was in the hospital with you and the next, I was waking up in some cave in Russia with an identical copy of myself telling me I’d been dead for two years.”

“A Lazarus Pit.”

“From what I could tell.”

He smirked to himself, but nothing was funny. “The only Lazarus Pit my Laurel knew about was destroyed, so why would she assume she’d been resurrected with one?”

“Because I made an educated guess when I woke up soaked to the bone next to a bubbling hot spring. Why can’t you ever just believe me?” She demanded, and it sounded so much like her — the real her — that it tore at his heart. Oliver kept his eyes on the road.

“Because you’ve done this before.”

“My doppelganger.” Her head dropped back against the seat rest. “Oliver, I don’t know what she must have done or said the past two years, but I promise that’s not me. I don’t want to think I could be that cruel to try and trick you like that twice.”

“Then where’s your other self?” He avoided describing it in a way that made it sound like he believed her. Even if everything — her tone, her inflections, the chunky knit sweater she was bundled in, just the way that she moved — was perfect in a way Black Siren had never managed.

This Laurel didn’t seem like she was mocking herself.

She sighed wearily. “I wish I had a better answer, but she took off. Said she wanted to get away from all of this, so she was tapping me back in.”

Oliver frowned. She’d only been impersonating Laurel in the public eye for a short while. Would she really give up the visibility and protection against Diaz that Quentin kept claiming she wanted so soon? Unless — and something cold seized his heart — this was the visible protection. A Laurel out there in the public eye and Diaz’s sights while she ran off for who-knew-where.

Could she really be? He looked in her eyes for the first time and couldn’t detect any hint of a lie. Yet somehow it still felt like he was falling into some sort of trap.

“Ollie, you’re going to miss the turn,” she said. “If that’s still where my dad lives.”

“Uh, right.” He made it sharp, then pulled up outside the apartment building. He started up to his unit and she fell right into step with him without a word.

Quentin answered the door after two knocks. He’d been expecting them since he’d been able to get the number of the return flight off his credit card purchase. Oliver had volunteered to collect her in case something more was going on than a simple joyride on Quentin’s money. Now he wasn’t sure what to say to the man.

“So, five-hundred bucks later, how do you feel?” Quentin asked her.

“Daddy, I’m so sorry,” she answered, stepping forward and wrapping him into a hug. Quentin’s eyes went wide and his arms hovered in the air. He looked to Oliver.

“She’s—” Oliver cleared his throat and tried again. “She’s claiming to be our Laurel.”

Quentin gaped. “How?”

“I can explain, I promise,” She said, then looked up. “But how are you?” One of her hands rested over Quentin’s chest.

“I- I’m not sure,” he answered.

Oliver started ushering them all inside on the off chance one of the neighbors stepped outside and heard this. They gathered in Quentin’s sitting room, Quentin on the couch, Oliver standing against the side wall and her pacing the space between couch and coffee table.

“Okay, so I guess there’s a Lazarus Pit or something like it in Eastern Russia. There’s this mountain range called Kamchatka.”

“I was talking to your sister on the phone about that,” Quentin said to him. “She — Earth 2, I mean — was in the room with me.”

“I didn’t see Thea or anyone else, but I think the League might have been set up there at some point,” she continued. “Someone’s things were left behind.”

“Malcolm’s people,” Oliver said, and watched her nod. “He’s dead, by the way.”

Siren already knew that, but this Laurel’s shock looked genuine. “How did it happen?”

“He took Thea’s place on a landmine.”

Her eyebrows raised even higher. “Contradictory to the end, then. Where’s Thea now?”

“On a mission with Nyssa and Roy.” He wondered if she thought she’d have better luck convincing his sister. Oliver wasn’t so sure, because at the moment he badly wanted to be convinced even despite the warning voices in his head urging him to hold back.

“So your doppelganger brought you back with this Pit?” Quentin asked. “I mean, why? And why the hell didn’t we think of that first?”

“The bloodlust, for one thing.” Assuming she was telling the truth, this Laurel would need the Lotus cure the same as Thea had two years ago. Oliver crossed his arms. “Have you felt any symptoms?”

“Not so far. But it’s only been a couple days since I came back.” She looked from one of them to the other. “Do I have a grave we could check so you both feel more sure about this? I can tell you I woke up in my navy blue evening dress. It was a little cold for Russia.”

“I want to believe you, honey, of course I do,” Quentin said. “You have no idea what I’d give to have you back with us.”

“Then just give me some trust,” she said, reaching for his hands. “I’m your daughter. I almost went to work at a corporate law firm in San Francisco until you called me out because you knew that wasn’t who I was. I used to race Sara up the tree in our yard, and I always let her win after the first time when I made her cry and you told me it was my job to take care of her. We went out to dinner before everything at the prison happened, and you told me you were proud of what I was doing as the Black Canary, and I finally felt like I had made it somehow! Like I’d done right by you,” She said, her voice wavering.

Quentin stood, one of his hands cupping her cheek. “It’s really you. It has to be. Oh, my baby girl.” He crushed her to him, drawing in a ragged breath as she held on just as tight. “I don’t know why she did it, but I’m just so glad it’s really you.”

Oliver had to look away. It was too hard to watch. If this was some trick, it would only hurt all the worse once it was revealed. If this was real, then he’d been nothing but cold to her since she’d returned. Why did he always have to screw up when it came to her? He knew what he felt deep in his heart, but every time it came for him to act, he just—

“Ollie.” She had come up to him at some point, and he hadn’t realized he was that far into his own head. “I know I can’t ask you to trust me. But you know me better than anyone.”

He stared at her, willing himself to find some small thing out of place. If he didn’t see it now and he let himself believe, he would be lost. He knew that much about himself. And if it was all a lie, he didn’t think he could find his way back out again this time.

“What did you tell me in the hospital?” He finally asked, his voice sounding gruff to his ears.

“That you shouldn’t try to take on everything alone,” she said. “Even if you feel you have to to protect everyone.”

She was right that those had been some of her last words, and yet he couldn’t be certain that they were the only two who knew that; he himself had told Felicity, and as much as he wanted to believe she wouldn’t have spread it, he didn’t have that guarantee.

“And the other thing?”

She hesitated, glancing back at Quentin and licking her lips. “I told you that you were the love of my life and always would be.”

He heard Quentin make some startled sound, but he was too blurry in Oliver’s vision to make out any expression. He blinked a couple times, trying to clear it so that he could see her — Laurel — and he stepped forward, cupping her face with both hands, and kissed her forehead.

Oliver wrapped her in a hug after, as it sunk in that he didn’t have to leave this time. She was here in the real world with them. Laurel was alive, so much more than a dream.

She rested her hands at his back, seeming unsure, and he felt a fresh wave of guilt over how he had practically shunned her since finding her at the airport. He held her just a little bit tighter for a moment before finally letting her go, stepping back and running both hands over his face in an excuse to wipe at his eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, I understand why you needed to check.” Her eyes stayed more on the floor than on her father as she turned to him and asked, “Could I use your guest room for a little? The time difference is kind of catching up to me.”

“Of course, honey. I, uh, had it set up for your doppelganger, but she took her things with her so it’s open.” The father and daughter headed back down the hall while Oliver walked over and sank onto the couch with unsteady legs.

Laurel was back. Truly. It was nearly overwhelming in its relief and yet the enormity of that fact was also hitting him. How did he explain this to Thea and the others hunting to find and destroy the Pits? How did he explain this to his team, whose experiences with the Laurel they’d known ranged from bad to worse? To his son, who was aware of the hero Laurel had been — and still was, now — but who had been warned to keep away from the woman who looked like her?

Quentin returned, taking his own seat in the armchair across. “I’m dreaming, right?”

“Feels like one,” Oliver agreed, knowing he had the experience to support that feeling. But there had been no strange glitches, and he was aware of all his memories, good and bad. This was all real.

“You’d think I’d get used to this. My daughters coming back, the whole world changing around us.”

Oliver nodded.

“Laurel and you.”

He froze and looked up, meeting Quentin’s gaze. “I… needed to know it was her.”

“Course you did. But I need to know things, too. Like just what your intentions are. I mean, you’re practically engaged, Oliver.”

He winced. “In a manner of speaking.” The thought caused his heart to sink deep down into his stomach or somewhere near it. A feeling he’d been having lately when his thoughts turned to Felicity and their tentative agreement.

Tentative because, and perhaps predictably, he’d started reconsidering at perhaps the worst possible moment: after their impromptu wedding alongside Barry and Iris. He had called the speedster up after the West-Allens had taken their honeymoon, just to catch up.

“We’re mostly just working on thank you cards now. Apparently super-fast writing also leads to super-fast hand cramps,” Barry had told him.

“Well, feel free to skip ours. Actually, what did we get you? Felicity never said.”

“Oh. It was, uh, an espresso machine.”

There was something off in the way Barry had said it, the pause and then the flat tone at the end. “Is it not working?”

“No, it does. I mean, I think so. I don’t actually drink much coffee since the caffeine doesn’t affect me,” Barry had admitted with an awkward laugh.

“Oh.” Oliver had felt his cheeks redden. He’d known that, thinking back on it. Shouldn’t Felicity have known that? He should have checked with her before they bought something, but she tended to take those things upon herself since she said teaching him Amazon was beyond her pay grade. “I guess Iris is making use of it?”

“A little. It wasn’t, uh, it wasn’t on the registry.” He’d been able to visualize the uncomfortable shuffling Barry must have been doing on the other end as he spoke. “She kind of had her fill of making coffee at Jitters, you know?”

“Right.” Oliver had closed his eyes, very tempted to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Could you send me the registry list? I can—”

“No, don’t buy something else. It’s fine. I mean, we’re not upset or anything.”

“About the gift,” Oliver had finished for him. “But you’re upset about something else.” Barry wouldn’t have even gone into any detail on the gift like this if something hadn’t been bothering him.

“Upset’s a strong word, Ollie. It’s just, you know, after the wedding was crashed and we lost Professor Stein and everything else, it kind of didn’t feel like our day anymore. And then we figured out a way to get some of that back and- and—”

“And we made it about us,” Oliver had realized with a wave of shame. What had ever possessed him to think that would have been a good idea? Yes, Felicity had asked, but he had been the one to start using the wedding backdrop as a way to hint he thought they should move things forward, and in doing so had upstaged Barry and Iris at their own celebration.

It had been the Lance family dinner all over again, where he’d subordinated Laurel’s feelings or those of Sara’s parents to a relationship he and she had wanted to try and force into working. Why was he always so selfish?

“Barry, I’m sorry. I don’t know what can make that up to you—”

“Look, we can just drop it, okay? What’s done is done.” Barry had sounded desperate to move on. “I just hope things work out for both of us, you know? We both got our dream come true.”

Oliver had hesitated.

“Right?”

“Yeah. Right,” he’d managed uncomfortably. Then he’d made some excuse or other and hung up the phone. He’d only felt it would have been an even lower blow to Barry to admit that his wedding hadn��t been interrupted by Oliver’s dream — far from it.

His dream was now sleeping just twenty feet down the hall.

Oliver dropped his head into his hands, feeling it starting to throb in his temples. He knew he loved Laurel and always would, had stopped denying that to himself over a year ago. But he was in a relationship — even a relatively chaste one since his misgivings about their not-quite wedding — with Felicity.

He’d been using William as an excuse, which wasn’t fair, but what he now couldn’t determine was, was it fair to William to have introduced Felicity into his life as a sort of surrogate only to end things with her? Or was his growing unhappiness in that relationship only going to teach his son a warped version of love and family?

They’d had no marriage certificate when they’d jumped in on Barry and Iris’ ceremony. They still didn’t. They weren’t really married. And he didn’t really want to ever be now. But was it right for him to start something with Felicity because he had been lonely and heartbroken, only to end it because the reason for his loneliness and heartbreak no longer existed?

“I know how I feel, I just don’t know what to do,” he admitted finally. Oliver jumped a little when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Well, the first thing you gotta do is be honest with yourself and with the people in your life about how you’re feeling.”

“How do I do that without hurting someone?”

“Sometimes you can’t,” Quentin told him. “Sometimes you just can’t control how people are gonna feel, Oliver. But you have to let them feel it in their own way.”

He was right. He was right, and Oliver knew it. He also knew that avoiding the truth to avoid pain was one of his greatest failings. But by God, he had to get past this. Not for his sake, but for the people in his life.

“I should inform the team so they can start getting used to the idea,” Oliver decided. “And I need to talk to Felicity.”

She deserved an explanation, uncomfortable as it might make him to give it. He should have been honest with her about his remaining feelings for Laurel whether she was dead or alive, that it would always be a part of him. He would be honest with her now.

Oliver left the apartment, turning and heading down the block. But as he looked back over his shoulder at the building, he frowned.

The window of the guest bedroom was open.

He turned back around, walking and then breaking out into a jog. By the time he reached the hallway to Quentin’s floor, he was flat-out running.

Oliver rapped on the doorframe, waiting with impatience for it to open. Quentin blinked in surprise when he did so. “What—”

“I need to check something.” He walked straight back down the hall and knocked on the guest bedroom door. “Laurel?”

“You said you already checked it was her, and she’s sleeping,” Quentin argued.

“I’m not checking that it’s her, I’m checking—” The door was unlocked and almost bounced off the wall when he threw it open.

Oliver’s heart froze.

“She- she’s gone!” Quentin exclaimed behind him. He brushed past Oliver, going to the window and sticking his head out. “Laurel!”

It did no good, as she hadn’t been anywhere outside when he’d noticed the open window. Why had she gone? Where had she gone? Whatever the reason or location, he had to find out, and fast.

He couldn’t lose her again. Not this time.

#lauriver #laurel x oliver #laurel lance #oliver queen #arrow #black canary #black siren #green arrow #my writing

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nofomoartworld · 7 years

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Hyperallergic: At the World Trade Center, a Familiar Tale of a Developer Exploiting Artists

Artworks by Stickymonger, Duda, Sonni, and Lauren YS on the 69th floor of Four World Trade Center (all photos by the author for Hyperallergic unless otherwise noted)

What would you do if offered the opportunity to create and exhibit work at the top of one of the world’s most prominent buildings? For 50 or so artists given that chance at Four World Trade Center, the choice was obvious, even if it meant paying for all involved costs out of their own pockets, with zero compensation guaranteed. Starting last summer, they painted their visions on the tower’s 69th floor, one of the building’s last unfinished areas, which would otherwise have stood quiet and dull. But now, unwittingly for some, their art may serve as office decoration, following a convoluted sequence of events that exemplifies the infamously murky relationship between the worlds of art and real estate.

Logan Hicks’s mural, “Travel North,” before and during his buffing of the wall (photos courtesy the artist)

The creations now color the sky-high, raw space — literally, with pieces painted directly on its concrete walls, posters wheatpasted on columns, intricate adhesives covering windows, and floor paintings. They’re rendered in the style and spirit of street art, except here, 850 feet above street level, with unparalleled views of Lower Manhattan and the rare blessing of the building’s developer, Silverstein Properties. And much of it will soon belong to Spotify, which recently secured the 34,000-square-foot floor as part its 15-year lease on the tower’s top 11 levels, which are set to become its new New York City headquarters. While the billion-dollar music-streaming service has in the past commissioned local street artists to enliven its offices, this time its future home comes pre-packaged with a lot of this decor — for free.

Four World Trade Center opened in 2013. Although artists understood that the 69th floor would eventually be leased, news of a high-profile company signing for it less than a year after they finished painting was unexpected to many. Silverstein Properties publicly shared the news in mid-February but has still not made an official announcement to the artists, many of whom found out only through a New York Times exclusive on the 69th floor gallery. The London-based artist Fanakapan, for one, was not aware of the news until Hyperallergic reached out to him last week. He and a number of artists are now seeking compensation for pieces never intended to be permanent, much less to be adopted as corporate interior decoration without their consent and at their expense.

Many saw the opportunity to work in Four World Trade Center as an honor; an exceptional privilege to be part of the rebirth of the complex. A number of artists Hyperallergic spoke with said they signed onto the project as they believed they were making temporary work for a tightly curated exhibition under the working title, Streets to Towers: Life in NYC, purportedly set to open on September 11, 2016, to coincide with a 15th anniversary memorial ceremony organized by Silverstein Properties. No such event ever occurred; the developer now markets the display under the incongruous title, 69th Floor Graffiti Artists, according to promotional materials Hyperallergic received. The works on view today include everything from touching tributes to 9/11 victims and survivors to a sensual painting of a topless woman and various portraits of CEO Larry Silverstein.

Portraits of Larry Silverstein by Chris RWK and Sonni with foam board figure by Brolga

Hugo Bastidas, “Portraits: Larry Silverstein”

“That project was presented to me as a standalone extension of the World Trade Gallery,” artist Logan Hicks told Hyperallergic, referring to the family-owned gallery near the tower. “There was minimal mention of Larry Silverstein and Silverstein Properties. I spent close to $3,000 on getting stencils cut, plus volunteered my time and effort —something I did knowingly and without hesitation when I thought it was for a 9/11 ceremony to honor those from the 9/11 events. On Silverstein’s side … there was no materials, no logistical support, nothing.” He accused the developer of intentionally using the artwork to “show the space to potential business interests, and potential renters.

“So our art became a sales tactic for them,” he added. “Way I see it, they exploited the emotional attachment to the 9/11 events to line their pockets.”

On February 25, he asked his friend to help him remove the large-scale mural of Times Square at night that he had painted with his son last September. It was soon replaced by Ben Angotti‘s painting of the aforementioned nude woman. Other artists are now considering following the example set by Hicks, including Bushwick Collective’s Chris Stain and Joe Iurato, who together painted a larger-than-life portrait of a construction worker helping rebuild one of the World Trade Center towers, based on a photograph.

Joe Iurato and Chris Stain’s mural, “The Rising” (2016), with Jack Fox’s “Take Time”

Ben Angotti, “Sonic Elation” (2017)

“This was a very special project for me,” Iurato told Hyperallergic. “I worked at the World Trade Center briefly in 2001, as a volunteer at the Windows On The World wine class. I’d left just a few months prior to 9/11. Going there to paint this mural would be my first time returning to the site since. It was important to me that the work paid tribute to 9/11 while also honoring the resilience of the people of NYC.

“After giving it thought, Chris and I both feel that our mural does not belong in the environment of an entertainment company. It just doesn’t reflect our reasoning for painting the piece in the first place, and it doesn’t feel right to leave it. … Had I known the work was going to remain on the wall once the floor was occupied, or that it was potentially going to be used for marketing purposes, I would’ve approached everything differently including the concept and cost.”

Silverstein Properties is allowing artists to paint over their art, but doing so requires volunteering more of their personal time and money. For Stickymonger, who spent all of last summer spreading her giant vinyl stickers across the floor’s windows, the effort wouldn’t be worth it. It would also mean about $5,000 essentially spent for naught, which she covered with the help of three sponsors.

“I am just too tired to be mad at this point,” she told Hyperallergic, adding that she had been told to prepare for an interview with Fox on September 11 that never happened. “It’s so disappointing that Spotify gets all the artwork for free and the artists were put aside while they were negotiating. I will never take my installation down as it will take a couple of days for me to tear down, which means another time investment.”

Stickymonger, “Cosmic Tower” (2016)

Works by Stickymonger and Conrad Stojak

The idea for art on the 69th floor began as a casual conversation between Doug Smith, the owner of World Trade Gallery, and Silverstein Properties’s Chief Marketing Officer Dara McQuillan. Situated near the World Trade Center complex, Smith’s gallery primarily represents street artists. It also houses a frame shop, which handles a lot of Silverstein Properties’s framing needs.

About a year ago, McQuillan visited the store for business but also noticed the art on view. He told Smith he could offer his artists a larger canvas under certain conditions: they’d have to work for free since Silverstein Properties has no budget for art; and the works accepted had to remain with the building since the canvas being offered, of course, was the blank surfaces of raw commercial real estate. Yet, there was also no guarantee of permanence, since any future tenant would have full control over the floor’s architecture. In return for the artists’ efforts, they would receive media publicity and could invite friends, family, and collectors up to view their work. Smith, excited at the prospect, told him there’d be no problem finding interested artists.

“Silverstein Properties’s goal is to bring in some of the world’s top companies to rent space,” McQuillan told Hyperallergic. “In the meantime, we’re happy for artists to use the raw space until companies rent space in the building.”

Marcus Robinson’s studio on the 66th floor of Four World Trade Center

Silverstein Properties has actually housed artists in the World Trade Center towers for over a decade, providing them with free studio space worth millions of dollars in jaw-dropping settings. In what seems like a dream situation, these unofficial artists-in-residence retain full ownership of all work created, are allowed to invite collectors to see the space, and keep all profits made, according to McQuillan. Painters Marcus Robinson and Todd Stone have occupied the 66th and 67th floors, respectively, of Four World Trade Center since it opened. They used to work in Seven World Trade Center, painting scenes of the complex’s reconstruction, until their floors were leased to tenants. Now that Spotify is taking over floors 62 through 72, Robinson and Stone, along with a small group of other artists, will migrate once more to Three World Trade Center when it opens next spring, along with all their paintings.

And therein lies the root of the conflict on the 69th floor, where the artworks are immovable and available for whoever moves in. The impetus for the inviting artists to transform the space may have been, as Smith asserted, “altruistic,” but numerous are the cautionary tales of developers coopting art — particularly street art — as advertisement. To give just a handful of examples: the narrative has played out around a Detroit landmark; around a Philadelphia condo-to-be; and over and over again in New York City, from a pop-up art show in the Bronx to a prominent mural in Dumbo to a shrewd attempt to capitalize on 5pointz. To believe that real estate moguls don’t consider artworks on their properties to be assets would be acutely naive.

“The amazing thing about Spotify is that they fell in love with the art and they’re going to design around it,” McQuillan told Hyperallergic. “The art that was done this summer and this fall is going to be there forever as part of their space. Maybe it was a factor … I certainly think it might have helped enhance the building.” He emphasized that Silverstein has never had an art budget and has no plans to compensate the artists. Hyperallergic has reached out to Spotify to ask if the company will pay the artists whose work is incorporated into their office décor, but has not received a response.

“Untitled” by UR New York and “Threshold Apprehension” by Hellbent

“Spotify has worked with ‘street artists’ to decorate their previous offices and those artists were paid, so I would guess they know that this stuff is not free,” artist Hellbent told Hyperallergic. “Since it is done, how do you retroactively put a price on the art? Some artists are at different levels and there will be different price points, and it just seems very hard to make all parties happy after the fact, which is why this is [usually] all done before paint hits the wall.” As a firsthand witness to the September 11 attacks, he created his patterned works as a small tribute to those affected by that day, also for the purported Streets to Towers exhibition.

“I will more than likely remove my work before Spotify moves in,” Hellbent added. “If they are interested in working with me they can contact me directly unless some sort of deal is brokered between the artists and them.”

Others still are more than happy for the new tenant to keep their work, particularly a high-profile company like Spotify. Although they may have eaten costs and essentially given away works worth thousands, or even tens of thousands of dollars, some of the artists believe the recognition they receive will ultimately repay their investments.

“I mean, we all know what kinds of executives they’re going to bring through,” Sean Sullivan, who works as Layercake, told Hyperallergic. “Record executives, musicians, all sorts of people there. Word of mouth is the best form of advertising.

“To do a project on the 69th floor of the World Trade Center has been beneficial to a lot of us,” he added. “You’ve gotta be pretty dumb not to think the floor’s not going to get rented out eventually, and that whoever probably took it wasn’t going to want the artwork. Of course they’re going to want the artwork. But never did Silverstein say they were ever going to use it for marketing to rent the place.”

Murals by Bradley Theodore, Layer Cake, and WhIsBE

Sonni, “21 Characters”

The timeline of events, to some, suggests a dubious story. According to several artists, including Sullivan, they had to finish their creations by the anniversary date. Many, like Stickymonger, had the impression that there was going to be an exhibition opening on September 11 with plenty of media in attendance. They rushed to finish their works, but no event ever happened. Spotify was touring the space around that time; the company signed the lease in January.

Robert Marcucci, a consultant working with Silverstein Properties, said the September date was set simply “to get a completion date for this stuff. Because we wanted it to get concentrated, to have it done so we could do something with it.

“Everything just was thrown into the pot. We didn’t know what was going to really become of this until it started really percolating,” he added. “And we had all sorts of people with input, all sorts of curators come in. It was a wonderful, cool, happening thing. Things got convoluted, got mixed up here and there, but it’s just such an adventure.” Marcucci’s official title, on the plaques accompanying each artwork on view on the 69th floor, is “Executive in Charge of Production.” Some artists never worked directly with him and believed he was simply a building manager.

Ron English, “No Brain No Pain” (2016)

Around September of last year, Silverstein Properties executives had also started approving more space for art, and the curators — including Joshua Geyer and Brooklyn Museum curatorial assistant Caitlin Crews — introduced more unpaid artists, often through informal invitations. While the artists Smith had initially brought on had to fill out an application form and explain how they would illustrate the concept of Streets to Towers, the only guidelines later participants were given, according to McQuillan, was to be respectful of the space. (All participating artists also had to sign a “temporary access and license agreement” with Silverstein Properties that let them more easily enter the high-security premises.)

Artist Ian Ferguson, who works as Hydeon, said he was simply offered a section that he covered with black-and-white paintings of brownstone façades. He was happy to exchange his 80 or 90 hours of free labor for the rare opportunity to work outside of his small Brooklyn apartment and up in the World Trade Center.

“I would have loved to get paid, of course, but for me it was more about the future exposure and future opportunities my mural would lead me to,” he told Hyperallergic, saying he appreciates Spotify’s interest in the art. “I never felt misled … I never felt like it was just some ‘free decoration’ for them … I feel like I’m still an undiscovered artist, and for me it was all about the opportunity/exposure.”

Iurato, who with Stain put in hundreds of dollars to create their 9/11 tribute mural, sees the situation differently. “Being an artist is often a very undervalued profession, where it’s very easy to go broke and fall short of your goals because people think you’ll just do it for ‘exposure,'” he said. “It seems everyone has a wall to paint or a place to hang a painting, where lots of people walk by, and that could bring great exposure and lead to commissions. But what they’re really saying is they want some art and don’t want to pay for it. Artists all go through it, and sometimes it’s just hard to say no.”

Installation of Kimyon Huggins’s piece, “Dakini Wonderland”

Murals by Dominic Pattinson, Dimension, and David Hollier, with sculpture by Savior Elmundo

As the months passed, artists were largely left in the dark about the fates of their works, with some still expecting an official unveiling or at least for curators to organize public visiting hours. Hicks accuses Smith of misleading him and others by remaining silent as the project’s concept strayed from the original vision he was pitched. The gallerist, he said, provided ambiguous answers to his inquiries about the Streets to Towers show, repeatedly saying he was hoping for something to happen. Hicks personally had no idea potential tenants were even touring the space, which he had believed was empty because Smith had received a special grace period for the project.

“Why not keep the artists updated with the facts of what is going on?” Hicks said. “To this day there is not a comprehensive list of artists who painted on that floor. It’s another case of a corporation thinking they are doing artists a favor by ‘allowing’ them to put up their work, while not considering the time, effort, or cost that went into creating the pieces.”

Invitation to private opening reception of the 69th floor gallery, with artwork by Fanakapan (image courtesy Silverstein Properties)

McQuillan told Hyperallergic that a website for the project is forthcoming, as is an opening event set for April 5 to celebrate the art and thank the artists. The event will welcome not only artists, their friends, family, and dealers, but also media, to ensure participants get publicity and acknowledgement for their work. The invitation for the opening features a photo of one of Fanakapan’s realist paintings, and although it’s prominently stamped with the Silverstein Properties logo, credit to the artist is absent.

Silverstein Properties has encouraged artists to bring reporters up to promote their own art, according to McQuillan. They had to wait, however, until the Times received the big media exclusive — what was essentially “a fluff piece” for the developer, Hicks said, with little focus on the art, and served “as a mouthpiece of saying, Look how fucking great our property is. Top-class tenants like Spotify are renting here.” He blames Smith for not properly informing artists of the floor’s developments. As an organizer who actually knows the art world, the gallerist “is in the position of doing something that advocates for the artists and their time and resources devoted to the project,” Hicks said. “But I’ve not seen any vocal opposition come out.”

To Smith, the 69th floor had always simply been an incredible showroom for his clients and prospective clients to see how artists may work on large-scale projects. If miscommunication occurred between him and some individuals, he said, it was due to time management issues and him juggling the project on top of his job at the gallery.

“My goal really hasn’t changed,” Smith told Hyperallergic. “My vision is, put amazing art in an amazing location with these incredible views, and good things will come of it. We’ll get some sales. But with any big project, it just kept growing. Many of the original ideas are really still on track, except the timeline changed.”

Chris RWK, “In the Big City”

Basil, “Perservere” and works by Brolga

Sales have happened. At least two artists reported selling pieces as a direct result of their work at Four World Trade Center. In less than a year, the 69th floor has transformed from art show to showroom; while artists are certainly receiving at least exposure, as time wears on, it’s painfully clear that for their billionaire hosts, quantity outweighs quality, and brand image trumps artistic integrity.

“[Silverstein executives] are now trying to cram as much ‘art’ in there as they can as they think that is what is supposed to happen,” Hellbent told Hyperallergic. “What made the original project really great was that it was curated around a theme and there was high talent level. … In the last week some more shit was stuffed into every bit of naked wall or floor. I think that dilutes the quality of the original idea.”

It’ll be about a year until Spotify’s architects touch the space, by which time the 69th floor may look entirely different depending on what additions and subtractions transpire. Perhaps the music company will do business with some of the artists involved and pay them for new commissions to brighten up its 10 other, unadorned floors. The company has already worked with at least one of them, a few years ago: Spotify previously hired Chris RWK to paint its offices, twice. The Robots Will Kill founder hadn’t been told that the 69th floor was going to be rented when he painted his signature android-like figures on its elevator bank, thinking it was being used for photo shoots or events. Still, he doesn’t want to buff out his efforts — which means that the music company’s third set of Chris RWK works will be freebies.

“I personally was driven by emotion for the project,” Chris RWK said. “I definitely understand that Silverstein is a large corporation with money and that Spotify is also.

“At this point,” he added, “if there was compensation, how would it be judged? The project is done, and my artwork is high above the city I love.” It’s a quandary created by those who never considered such concerns at the outset; finding a solution to it was never part of their agenda.

Lauren YS, “Flying Stripes” with Cern, “We Trust More Than We Hate”

Installation view of the 69th floor gallery

Painting by Erasmo with Sonni’s “21 Characters”

Miguel Ovalle’s in-progress sculpture with L.E.G. and Itaewon’s “Light Print”

Work by Frank Ape

Dru Blumensheid, “Do Humans Dream of Electric Sheep”

BoogieRez, “Optimistic Rebel”

Rubin 415, “II”

Installation view of the 69th floor of 4 World Trade Center

The post At the World Trade Center, a Familiar Tale of a Developer Exploiting Artists appeared first on Hyperallergic.

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