"must be nice, though, not feeling pain."

"it's... interesting. i'm not sure if its better or worse anymore, but it does help when something comes up."

"why wouldn't it be better? do you miss feeling physical pain?"

"i don't know. it isn't that i miss it, but i have this fear that i'm missing a very big part of being human in not feeling it. it does help when you get hit by some energy blast though or starving—man, i just realized i have a lot of stories i could tell you."
He hadn’t expected the conversation to draw up Hawke’s memories, but with his counterpart plenty present—more so than he had been in recent months—Connor perhaps should have. There was a lot, however, he hadn’t sorted through, and he couldn’t say that he really wanted to sort through the thoughts that were pushed to the surface—thoughts about a dad gone missing not once, but twice, three times even, and it didn’t matter if it was a dream scenario, drummed up by the villainy of someone in the city, or something more true-to-life when Connor was going to be disappointed regardless.

That was the shared history, he supposed, neither particularly embraced by their fathers though Hawke, at the very least, had a second chance and, through him, so did Connor even if it hadn’t been all it was cracked up to be. Oliver Queen, after all, was flighty. One minute, he could be there. The next, gone, and Connor wasn’t sure when they had crossed paths the last time, chalking it up to “Ollie being Ollie”. He supposed it was easier that way, to take it as the regular occurrence it was rather than something person—even if that part was a little more difficult to manage when it filled a void for both Hawke, who had spent the better part of his formative years following in his father’s footsteps, and for Connor, who had the chance to have that figure in his life.
As for you, my boy…
“That doesn’t sound right,” Connor commented, seated in the middle of his room, legs crossed underneath him in his typical meditation pose. He opened up one of his eyes, glancing around the room for a second—no, there was no one there and, truthfully, he would have known if someone was there even without opening his eyes. It was just him and Hawke—and, of course, the buried body of Turbo, nestled up in the sheets of his bed as if he owned it.
I know Doctor Sivana’s genetic experimentation has made you a shell of the man you used to be.
You feel empty—
—clinging to what few memories you still have.
I think the time has come for you to stop living in the dark.
What’s the old saying?
And the truth shall set you free.
I couldn’t even remember your mother’s name when she told me she was pregnant. I offered her money, but not to help raise you—to take care of you. Immediately.
It was almost impossible to ignore the similarities—the fact that Brian Oliver wouldn’t have recognized him from any other Korean kid in Los Angeles, wouldn’t have even attempted to lift a finger to help—at least Oliver had that one over him—and it was made even more difficult by the remnants of the latest round of nightmares.
When you were born though, I think maybe I’d changed from my awakening trapped on an island.
But it turns out the Green Arrow is even less a father figure than plain old Ollie.
But your mom kept pushing it. Telling you the famous Emerald Archer was your father.
You tracked me down, following exactly in my footsteps.
God, that was annoying.
Because at the end of the day—you know what you are?
Nothing but a reminder that I’m getting older.