The ignition clicked, the car's engine rumbling towards gentle silence. Beyond the vehicle's metallic frame loomed the castellian form of Brentwood Academy, a stronghold nestled in the Palisades beyond the city limits, surrounded by manicured ground and rolling countryside, to protect and nurture the best and brightest of Gotham's young minds. At least, that was the theory, the justification that Gotham's civic government offered to excuse investing so much of its education budget in an Academy that catered - a few well-meaning scholarships not withstanding - to the offspring of Gotham's rich and famous, at the expense of the inner city schools that struggled to provide more than a threadbare education to the less fiscally endowed masses.

Such things were as much out of sight and mind here as the city itself was, however. Brentwood was envisioned as a beacon of opportunity: a life raft for those seeking to climb out of the swirling dark waters of Gotham's shadow on a path towards liberation and greater things, before the maelstrom could drag them down into a futile life of crime or mediocrity. Corporations like Queen Consolidated and Wayne Enterprises did their best to uplift the best and brightest of Gotham's sons and daughters, offering scholarships to those whose minds and potential they saw as most tragically wasted in the city's public schools; but of course, their judgement was as corrupt and biased as any other institution on Gotham City. A worthwhile education for one's children had become a bribe, ensuring corporate loyalty from employees, and political accommodation from city officials. For the Wayne Foundation, its charitable efforts concealed something equally insidious: for every genuine case of benevolence towards a Gothamite child in need, another nurtured the latest generation of clandestine vigilantes, a secret reward for the illegal antics of America's latest teenage titans.

Not all such titans were self-made, however. Raisa's hands fell away from the steering wheel, but her eyes faltered for a moment before they turned towards the boy seated beside her. Mister Queen had been frugal on the specifics surrounding the boy - specifics that seemed to have eluded him, as well. There was no explanation for how Oliver Queen's genome was woven into Connor's superhuman genetic code, and yet paternity tests and extensive scrutiny confirmed that it was. There was no explanation for how the boy came to be, how he came to be capable of what he was capable, or how it was that he knew what he knew; how it was that he had been grown, or manufactured, or engineered.

It didn't seem to matter to Oliver Queen. It wasn't the first time he had adopted the mantle of fatherhood for a down on their luck youth that crossed his path, and it was unlikely to be the last. Perhaps it was empathy, seeking to provide for his fellow orphans in a way that his own guardians and custodians had never done for him. Perhaps it was more selfish than that, a theft of fatherhood to somehow feel closer to the parents that he'd never truly had the chance to know.

Whatever it was, it was that assumed responsibility that had led them here; led to Raisa delivering Oliver Queen's latest ward to the doorstep of his alma mater. It was done with the best of intentions, favours cashed in to secure a Wayne Foundation scholarship that would provide Connor with the kind of education it seemed he had thus far been deprived of. Giving him his best chance, that was the pitch; and yet, for all that noble intent, it was not Oliver Queen who was here, bringing his son to Brentwood for the first time. The absence was branded as protection, a barrier to protect Connor from the repercussions of the Queen name, and from the attention of those at Queen Consolidated who might seek to incorporate Connor into their nefarious schemes if they new. An odd paradox: a desire to be there for his son, executed by not being there at the sort of time when Connor might need him to be.

Raisa adjusted her features into a small, apologetic smile.

"He would be here if he could be."

A lie, or perhaps not. Perhaps Oliver Queen was here, lurking out of sight, watching from afar, forcing himself to endure whatever emotional cost came along with his choices. He was a far cry from the brooding, wounded soul he had been in the wake of his island exile, but some habits and patterns were hard to break.

A hint of mirth crept into Raisa's smile, her voice dropping part way towards a conspiratorial whisper.

"If you ask me, I think he is frightened of this place. Their parting was not exactly on the best of terms."