I don't want to be a hero, You say in a small voice, watching the stones and the river, as it washes off someone's (Who was that and why did I take them out I never meant to kill anyone) blood. This just isn't right, you say in quieter voice that almost breaks. He watches you with a look of intriqued and slightly cold bewilderment, the kind of a look of Get over it already, there's many more to come, before he finishes readjusting his backpack and tosses you an improvised towel out of a shirt. That's as good as you get, here. Hero not in doing the right thing, but doing the wrong thing before the bad guys get to do it and take your chance. You glare at him but he doesn't even move. Doesn't even change that annoying cold look of his. And for a while, you trust him. Not to know things right - But to get you both through the day. Maybe the night, too. Even though it feels like a night already. That trust is not enough; but, like other things, it just will do.
In Which Oliver’s Not A Hero And Slade Speeches
