He's the mayor and to someone with a case of hero worship a mile wide, it couldn't have been a more perfect arrangment to making sure the city survived. Merlyn had made it quite the task, the rampant crime and dark underbelly spilling forth in more ways than one, forever scarred by the explosions that had been the catalyst to nearing bringing it to it's knees; but your father, the mayor, made sure it wouldn't happen from a place where he may have very well had more power than behind the bow, making deals with criminals and toeing the line of what was acceptable among the traditional definition of 'hero'; and its hard not to think of all the similarities between the two of you, even if you can't exactly connect the politico vigilante with the college professor, but at least they're both dad these days.

Its a sort of panic you can settle into, a high energy beat that matches the thrill of the chase and a smooth enough groove hidden just beneathe the bombast sound, and Connor is no exception. Archery might have been his father's forte, his strong point alongside an inventiveness for trick arrows that even you can't deny using from time to time no matter how strange they are; but martial arts -- martial arts is your field of study, half a lifetime spent training in different disciplines and another half, a childhood still fairly unknown, but lived all the same, studying more. It had been for your own good because now, it doesn't take long to calm down from being ambushed. You can breathe even after the latest kicks to your ribs. You can get up after they've thought you were down for the count. You can smirk when they're surprised, and all it takes is a deep breath, followed by a single, smooth and simple exhale that courses calm through your veins.

It probably isn't even okay by police standards that you've throw someone throw a store from window and kicked another hard enough to take out a display case, but if there was one thing learned from the chaos of January, it was that if someone wanted something bad enough, they would go to extreme lengths to get it. The rogues -- they had wanted chaos and you have to admit, even a part of you wanted some as well. A part of you wanted to break the mold made. You wanted to break routine. You didn't want to be who you were anymore, even if only temporary and even if it didn't change that one day, everyone would wake up from that living nightmare. Well, maybe not everyone, and you start to wonder if you're really laying on a street, hidden from the prying eyes of the city's population in a dark alleyway, and not disassembling a gun right in front of a burglar who had all intention on using it just a second before you jam an arrow through the bore to block it.

Its a thought you can't explain, but it comes up once in a while, sometimes at the most random moments, and you know she shares the same thought: "But why did he call it the Arrowcave!?"