Damian “I look like a carbon copy of my father at this age except for the eyes” Wayne versus Jason “I AM a copy of Bruce (genetics be damned) and will be for the next 30 years” Todd except you throw in the extra angst of Damian wanting to look the most like his father but failing (he still looks like Talia in many ways) and the double angst of Jason wanting to look like anything other than Bruce and then ending up with his face. I mean can you IMAGINE the self worth/identity issues between those two—
Author's Note: It has been a while since I've published something on tumblr. I hope you enjoy :)
Summary: When Ashley Lance takes up the mantle of the Phoenix, she believes she's simply honoring her late mother—a hero who fell during the Imperium Invasion of 2006.
But stepping into the fire means inheriting the shadows her mother left behind. Haunted by unanswered questions and desperate to prove herself to a team that still sees her as a rookie wearing a legend's mask, Ashley soon finds herself in the crosshairs of Deathstroke.
His disturbing fixation on her isn't just about the hero she's becoming—it's tied to the truth forgotten in the wake of her mother's death, a truth that could shatter everything Ashley thought she knew about her family, her legacy, and herself.
Together We Stand, United We Fall
Book One
Prologue
Star City
February 19, 2006
4:45 PM
It had seemed fitting that the downpour had started before dawn. It fell in a steady curtain now, blurring the edges of the world into cold, muted grays. Even the marble headstones seemed to bow beneath the weight of grief.
Ashley Lance stood at the very front of the funeral mourners, her black flats sinking into the sodden earth, the collar of her coat drawn tight against her neck. The mahogany casket sat at the center of it all, polished wood darkened by water and shadow. Draped across the top was her mother's battle-worn cape, its once-bright red fabric clinging to the wood where the rain had soaked through.
Ashley had told herself she wouldn't look at it. That if she didn't, maybe none of this would feel real. But her eyes kept returning to it, over and over, as if she were powerless to stop herself.
The noise had always been there. She could admit that now, standing before her mother's casket. A dull ache that hummed in the back of her skull since childhood—never loud enough to silence her thoughts, but never quiet enough to forget. It was as constant as her own heartbeat, something woven into her very bones. She had always known she was different. That wasn't arrogance—it was fact. One didn't grow up in this family without carrying some strange, heavy inheritance.
But today, watching the casket glisten under the rain, Ashley wondered if the noise had been trying to tell her something all along. And if she had only listened—really listened—maybe she wouldn't be here, a black-clad figure among a sea of mourners, waiting for the ground to swallow the last piece of her mother.
The crowd was impossible to ignore. Costumes and capes mingled with black suits and veils; the greatest heroes in the world gathered in silence. Their presence was both a comfort and a cruel reminder. Some of them had known her mother intimately, had fought beside her, even held Ashley when she was still in diapers. But now they were all strangers—faces blurred by grief, masked by rain.
And then came the realization, raw and brutal: she was an orphan now. She had never known her father's true identity. Her mother had perished in battle one week ago today. The hollow truth pressed at her ribs, threatening to claw its way out of her chest in the form of a scream.
Her fingers curled into the hem of her black dress, anchoring herself to the fabric. But the hum in her head shifted—swelling, twisting—until she realized it wasn't just background noise anymore. It was voices.
Every voice.
Every thought from every mind gathered in the cemetery surged into her head at once.
Ashley's breath caught, staggering under the psychic flood. The casket blurred, the crowd stretched and warped as though she were seeing them through water. Dinah moved forward, lips shaping words Ashley couldn't hear. They were buried under the roar—the unbearable roar—of thousands of minds screaming at once.
Pain lanced white-hot through her temples. Her knees buckled.
The psychic noise swelled until it became pressure—dense, invisible, filling her skull until it felt like her brain would split open. The thoughts of heroes, civilians, strangers, all twisted together into one incomprehensible storm.
Stop.
The word was a desperate whisper at first, but the noise only rose higher.
Stop. Stopstopstop. STOP.
Her face hit the wet grass, cold moisture biting against her skin. She tried to focus on the casket—solid, final, indifferent to her breaking.
But the hum sharpened, became a piercing shriek, a psychic blade cleaving through her thoughts. It felt like a hot blade sliding through one ear, splitting every thought into raw nerve before exiting out the other ear. Her scream tore out before she could stop it, ragged and primal, too large for her small nine-year-old body. It echoed across the cemetery, and everywhere, hands flew to heads as mourners staggered under her invisible assault.
Somewhere, someone shouted her name. But Ashley was already sinking into the blinding storm inside her skull.
Ashley blinked, waking with a sharp inhale.
The ceiling above her was familiar—the faint crack in the plaster, the water stain in the corner she always ignored. It was her room. The weight of her comforter tangled around her legs was grounding, but not enough to undo the memory. The funeral hadn't been a cruel nightmare. The memory of her mother's casket pressing into the earth burned fresh behind her tired eyes.
Her chest tightened as she swung her legs over the bed, feet finding the cool hardwood. The silence in her mind was almost worse. After so long living with the hum, its absence felt hollow.
Ashley pushed herself to her feet and shuffled toward the door. The hallway was dim, moonlight cutting a pale stripe across the landing window. She steadied herself against the wall as she made her way to the stairs.
That's when she heard them—voices. Real ones this time, low and sharp, carrying up from the living room below.
Ashley lingered halfway down the stairs, her bare toes curling into the wood. The house felt too still, save for the quiet storm unfolding below.
Dinah stood in the living room, arms crossed, jaw locked tight. In the lamplight, she looked older than twenty—too young to carry the mantle of Black Canary, yet already worn down by the legacy and weight of it. She had only been in the role for a year, but the shadows underneath her eyes made it feel like decades. She had taken it up because someone had to, because the world demanded another Canary.
But it wasn't just the world that demanded it. Dinah demanded it of herself. She owed it to her sister, Laurel. To her legacy. And to Ashley, though the girl didn't know it yet. Dinah had promised herself she'd keep her niece safe, no matter how much the world tried to strip away the rest of their family.
"You can't just barge into my house like this," Dinah hissed, her voice low but sharp enough to cut glass. "You can't just drop this on her right now. You saw what happened at the funeral."
Green Arrow didn't flinch. He stood like stone, rain dripping faintly from the edge of his hood, his mask shadowing storm-gray eyes. The quiver at his back made him look like he was braced for a fight, even though his hands hung loose at his sides.
"She has a right to know," he said, his voice gravelly, frayed at the edges.
Dinah's jaw clenched. Her sister's casket had been lowered into the ground nearly twenty-four hours ago. Dinah was still waking up screaming most nights. And now this man—this stranger—thought he had the right to barge in and speak about her sister like he owned the grief.
"If you're looking for redemption, you won't find it here." Dinah's tone was iron.
Green Arrow's gaze flicked to the stairs, just for a heartbeat, as if he sensed Ashley's presence before flicking back to the angered blonde. "I'm not looking for redemption," he admitted quietly. "That ship sailed a long time ago." His voice hitched almost imperceptibly. "But the kid deserves to know her mother was a hero."
Dinah opened her mouth the snap back—to explain that Ashley already knew Laurel was a hero—but a sound from the stairs froze them both.
Ashley stood halfway down, her small frame shrouded in shadow, eyes wide but sharp.
Dinah's heart lurched. Damn it.
"Ash," she said quickly, stepping toward the stairs, voice softening. "How long have you been up?"
"I'm fine." Ashley's voice was flat, automatic. Her gaze cut past her aunt, locking on the archer. "You knew my mother?"
Green Arrow didn't look away. His jaw worked, muscles feathering as if the words cost him something. "Yeah," he finally said, his voice rougher than before. "I knew her. I was... there."
The words hung in the air like a dropped blade.
Dinah felt her pulse spike. Don't say more, not like this. Not with her watching you like that.
Ashley's fingers gripped the banister so tightly her knuckles whitened. "You mean—you were there when she—" The sentence caught in her throat, her voice breaking.
Green Arrow's silence was answer enough. His eyes flickered with something raw—grief, guilt, memory—but he said nothing.
Dinah stepped closer, gently touching Ashley's arm. "Ash, you don't have to do this right now." Her own voice faultered under the weight of memory—Laurel's last words to her, the smell of scorched skin, the way her sister chose to sacrifice herself for the sake of millions without hesitation.
Why do we always choose the mask over the people who need us most? Dinah exhaled slowly, closing her eyes.
Ashley shook her head, her gaze darting between them. "Why is he here? Why is the Green Arrow in our house?"
Dinah pressed her lips thin, searching for a lie she could live with.
"We were friends," Green Arrow explained. The word sounded hollow, too small. "She inspired me to become this," he gestured to himself, to the bow on his back. "When the Imperium invaded... she fought until there was nothing left to give. I was there when—" His voice broke, and he looked away. "She saved me. Saved more people than any of us will ever know."
Ashley's chest twisted. Her mother's cape on the casket flashed in her mind. The rain on polished wood. The way every hero had bowed their heads, honoring the fallen.
"You said you were there." Ashley's voice trembled with fury. "That you saw her."
"She was brave," Green Arrow nodded. "One of the best I've ever fought alongside."
"That's not what I asked," Ashley stepped down another stair, bare foot creaking on the old wood. "I asked what happened."
Green Arrow's throat worked; his mouth opened, closed. He looked like he was bracing against an arrow loosed long ago, one still lodged in his chest. "She saved lives that day," he managed. "More than we will ever know."
"I know that!" Ashley's voice cracked, the fury bubbling over. Her chest heaved, tiny shoulders trembling with grief too big for her body. "Don't you think I know that already?"
Dinah raised a hand. "Ash, this isn't—"
"No!" Ashley cut her off, glaring past her aunt at the archer. "If you knew her, if you saw her, then tell me what happened! Tell me why she had to die and not you!"
Green Arrow's masked eyes darted to Dinah, as if asking her to intervene. But Dinah only shook her head, torn. Part of her wanted to shield her niece, to preserve what little innocence the girl had left. But another part of her—the part that remembered Laurel's last words—knew the truth couldn't be softened forever.
"I saw her fall," Green Arrow said at last, voice raw, stripped of all armor. "And I couldn't stop it."
The words fell like ice water down Ashley's spine. Her knees buckled slightly. Visions that did not belong to her—flashes of battle, of dust and fire—pressed into her mind like foreign memories.
Her breath turned jagged, scraping her ribs. "Why are you here?" She demanded, her voice shaking but sharp enough to wound.
Green Arrow's silence was louder than any answer. His jaw clenched as his eyes burned with a guilt he couldn't quite name. I failed her—I failed Laurel. And now I'm failing you, too.
Dinah felt the room tighten like a snare. Ashley's small body shook with rage, her hands trembling as they curled into fists. The air felt charged, heavy, as if the walls themselves were holding their breath. For once, she wished for her mother's iron-tight guidance. If anyone knew what to do in this situation, it was Dinah Drake.
"Why did she choose to die?" Ashley's voice shattered the silence like glass. "Why didn't she choose me?"
Dinah's heart splintered.
Green Arrow flinched as if struck. He had no answer, only the crushing weight of the truth: Laurel had chosen the fight and ultimately died because of it, and there was nothing anyone could do now.
Ashley's breathing quickened, shallow and sharp. "Why did—" Her voice broke into a sob she tried to strangle. "Why did she leave me behind?"
Dinah's instinct was to gather her niece, hold her, swear that she wasn't abandoned. But the words stuck in her throat because she knew, deep down, that Ashley wasn't wrong. Laurel had died for the sake of the world, to ensure her daughter's future.
Dinah moved then, placing a hand on Green Arrow's bicep. "You should go."
Ashley's eyes burned with fresh tears. The lamp rattled first, then the coffee table. Green Arrow's boots lifted off the ground, and he slammed into the wall with a sickening thud, glass shattering, frames crashing down.
Ashley froze, horror twisting her face. "Oh my God—I didn't mean—I didn't mean to—"
Green Arrow staggered, rising to his full height slowly, his gaze locked on the nine-year-old. It wasn't angry, but heavy, almost pitiful.
"I didn't mean to!" Ashley's voice broke. The pressure in the room swelled with her panic.
"Ash—" Dinah's voice was firm, steady, though her own fear gnawed at her ribs.
The storm broke then. The house shook with a psychic roar. Voices overlapped—Dinah shouting, Oliver grounding himself with fists clenched, Ashley's screams cracking through the noise—until it felt like the walls were closing in, the world splintering under grief too big for one child to hold.
The bell above the flower shop door chimed as Dinah slipped inside, the scent of damp earth and roses wrapping around her like a blanket she didn't want. It had been a week since her mother had returned from wherever Dr. Fate had spirited her away, and still Deedee hadn't said much of anything about it. No explanations, no apologies. Just a cool, practiced smile and a directive: "Help me with the shop. It'll keep your hands busy."
So Dinah did.
The shop smelled like lilacs and roses, but to Dinah it felt like a coffin.
She wiped down the counter for the third time, the cloth dragging over already-clean wood. Deedee moved briskly behind her, trimming stems with practiced ease, her hands always busy, her eyes always averted. Dinah hated the silence more than she hated the clipped remarks—the silence left her alone with the truth.
To the world, Laurel Lance was gone. Dead in the Imperium Invasion, another casualty of a war the League barely survived. Her obituary had read like the sum of a promising young woman's potential: mother at nineteen, talented student-athlete, scholarship recipient, a mind destined for greatness. No mention of the mask. No mention of her fire, her wings, her sacrifice.
The Phoenix didn't exist anymore.
Dinah swallowed the ache in her throat. Every time she passed the framed photo of Laurel that Deedee had quietly placed by the register—cap and gown, smile radiant—she wanted to scream. That wasn't who Laurel really was. That wasn't who had died. But she couldn't—not to her mother, not to the customers, not to anyone.
That Laurel had been buried in silence.
The world needed a body. The world needed closure. So Laurel Lance was declared dead—a casualty of the Imperium Invasion. Black Canary had been there when the League made the decision. Martian Manhunter made it a point to explain their logic—which Dinah secretly appreciated because she the thought hadn't occured to her that she had to hold two funerals. Laurel worked as a bio-intern for Queen Industries's neuroscience division.
"Dinah." Her mother's voice broke the quiet. Not sharp, not angry—just steady and distant. "The yellow roses need to be trimmed shorter. Customers don't like them too tall."
Dinah nodded, moving to obey without a word. That was how things were now. Deedee gave orders. Dinah followed. And in between, silence filled every crack. It did keep Dinah's hands busy.
"Are you planning to go back to school?" Deedee suddenly asked, eyes narrowed as she arranged a bouquet.
"...No."
There was no sigh, no anger. Just the faintest pause before Deedee set her scissors down. "Your father saved for years so you and Laurel could have good educations. Justice doesn't pay the bills, Dinah."
Her tone wasn't cruel. It wasn't even disappointing in the traditional sense. It was colder than that—like she had already resigned herself to the fact that Dinah would waste her father's hard-earned money.
Dinah swallowed again. She wanted to scream that she hadn't wasted anything, that she was fighting now, that she was keeping people safe the way Laurel had. But Deedee didn't believe in heroes anymore. Not after losing one daughter to it. The job had demanded too much this time.
So Dinah bit her tongue. She nodded again. And she let her mother move past her, carry a fresh bouquet to the cooler, as if the conversation hadn't happened.
"I've been meaning to ask you something."
Dinah glanced up, cautious.
"There are still some of Laurel's things at Queen Industries. Office things. Files, personal belongings. They've kept them in storage since..." Her mother's voice trailed off, as if the word death still refused to form. She cleared her throat softly. "It would be better to have them here. Could you go? I have to go to the bank."
Dinah stilled, the shears tight in her hand. Her mother had asked so little of her lately—everything between them had been stripped down to silence and necessity. The request felt both ordinary and unbearably heavy.
"I'll go," Dinah said quietly.
Queen Industries had always felt untouchable when Dinah was younger—tall glass towers that rose above the city like sentinels, polished and impenetrable. Her father had taken her there a handful of times when he worked security details for Robert Queen's galas. Dinah remembered peering over the balcony railings, watching glittering guests in gowns and tuxedos laugh and sip champagne. A world that never belonged to her.
Now, the lobby was quieter, more subdued. She gave her name at the desk, explained she was there for Laurel Lance's belongings. The receptionist nodded, handed her an impressively wrapped gift basket, and called someone up.
She hadn't expected Oliver Queen himself to appear.
He moved through the lobby with a steady stride, a little heavier than she remembered from society pages. Time and survival had left their mark—sharper lines at his jaw, a depth to his eyes that hadn't been there when he was just another playboy heir.
"Dinah Lance?" His voice was deep, carrying a faint rasp. "I'm Oliver. Oliver Queen."
"I know who you are," Dinah replied, eyebrows furrowed.
He offered her a faint, rueful smile. "Of course you do. Your father worked security for my dad. I remember him." A pause. "And... Laurel, of course."
Dinah blinked before realizing he was expecting some sort of response from her. "Thanks for the gift basket."
Oliver shifted, the easy charm dimming into something softer, more careful. "Laurel and I went to school together. She was—" He stopped himself, exhaling through his nose. "She was a good person. She deserved better."
Dinah swallowed hard, forcing her throat to unclench. She didn't know what to say to a man who had known Laurel in a life so far removed from the one that killed her. She wanted to ask what he remembered. What he'd seen. But the words stuck.
"Nobody's touched her desk," Oliver said instead, as if rescuing her from the silence. "Come with me."
They rode the elevator in silence. Dinah caught his reflection in the glass doors—the same boy from the photos, but worn by years that had nearly erased him. He had been thought dead, stranded on some island for half a decade, only to return to reclaim his legacy. A man remade by survival.
Dinah thought it was a bit too prolific. A man larger than life. She couldn't help but wonder if he looked at her and saw the same thing—another survivor, standing where someone else should have been.
Laurel's office was smaller than Dinah expected. Not the sleek, glass-corner suit one might imagine for someone as dazzling and commanding as the Phoenix, but the cramped little room, barely large enough to hold two desks shoved back-to-back. The overhead fluorescent light hummed faintly, the white walls bare except for a corkboard tacked with press clippings and sticky notes in Laurel's careful handwriting.
Dinah lingered in the doorway for a moment, almost afraid to step inside. She had prepared herself for... something grander, some physical trace of the sister she could never quite catch up to. Instead, it looked like a student's study space—ordinary, almost disappointingly so.
One desk was littered with coffee rings and old files belonging to the other intern. The other was neater, the pen holder still full, a planner rucked beneath a stack of research papers. This was, without a doubt, Laurel's desk.
Oliver awkwardly took the gift basket from Dinah's hands, allowing her space to move closer, her breath catching when she noticed a picture frame tucked against the monitor. She picked it up slowly, hands trembling.
Dinah traced her sister's face with her thumb. The realization hit like a blade to Dinah's ribs. She didn't know this version of Laurel—the woman who worked long hours in a tiny office, who kept their photo by her desk. She only knew the Phoenix, the larger-than-life hero who burned so brightly that Dinah had been left blinded in her shadow.
And now she was gone. Both of them were gone, really. The Laurel that was an older sister, and the Phoenix that was a savior.
Dinah swallowed hard, trying to keep her chest from tightening. She placed the photo back carefully, almost reverently, and sat down in her sister's chair. For a moment, she imagined Laurel sitting here after class, or before a long patrol through the slums of Star City, typing away at some research notes. It was painfully normal, the kind of thing Laurel never let anyone see.
"I'll go get a box," Oliver announced quietly from the doorway, his tone giving her space rather than pressing in on her grief.
Dinah only nodded, her voice caught somewhere in her throat.
The silence that followed was oppressive, heavier than the stale air in the tiny office. She leaned back in the chair, letting her eyes drift across the desk, slower now. Notebooks stacked neatly, lined up by size. An empty mug sat on the edge of Laurel's desk. Laurel had been meticulous, disciplined, even here. Dinah realized—with a pang so sharp it made her flinch—that she didn't know what half the notes meant, or what projects her sister had been chasing. She didn't even know the names of her coworkers or who she confided in.
The truth landed hard. She hadn't known Laurel at all. Not this Laurel—the one who balanced class, internships, and late-night patrols without ever letting her sister see the cracks. Dinah had only known the Phoenix, the untouchable figure who set herself ablaze for a city that didn't deserve her.
By the time Oliver returned, carrying a plain cardboard box under one arm, Dinah had clasped her hands together in her lap, staring at them as if the answers to her sister's life might be etched into her palms.
Oliver set the box down gently on the desk, careful not to disturb the photo frame. For a moment, he said nothing, just let the quiet breathe between them. Then, almost awkwardly, he cleared his throat. "You and Laurel," he started, leaning against the doorframe, "were you close?"
Dinah hesitated, a bitter laugh slipping out before she could stop it. "Not really." Her voice was soft, almost ashamed. "I was just her kid sister. If I had known..." Dinah sighed. "I wish I had more time with her."
Oliver studied her, his expression unreadable but not unkind. He gave her a small, self-deprecating smile. "I'm sure she felt the same way."
Dinah blinked at him, surprised by his honesty. For a moment, the weight in her chest shifted—not gone, but shared. She looked back at the desk, at the framed photo of herself, Laurel, and Ashley. "She kept that here," Dinah murmured. "Right in front of her every day—and I don't even remember the day it was taken."
Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together tightly, fighting the swell of tears. There was a quiet shame in admitting the truth, even if it was to Oliver Queen, who probably would forget her existence in a few days.
Oliver, much to her surprise, didn't press or tell her to stop crying or to be strong. He just stood nearby, steady, as Dinah confronted the distance between herself and her sister—the realization that mourning someone you never truly knew could feel like drowning in the shadows.
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