Title: Crossing the River
Word Count: 12,175

Disclaimer: I do not own Arrow. If I did, I would be writing on season three instead of this.

Notes: I wanted to do something very special for all of those wonderful hits and reviews on Technical Assistance, so I decided to post the longest "one-shot" I've ever written. I think it clocks in at over 12,000 words, and, while I've written it as a one-shot, it's actually too long to post as one. But I have 500 reviews on FanFiction and 20,000 hits on AO3, and that deserves some serious appreciation, especially since I've been neglecting so much due to school starting and my current collab and TA's standard writing time. So, consider this my show of appreciation.

This started as a small, innocuous idea, but it somehow turned into a monster of a fic with a huge story arc—and it only spans three episodes. Seriously, I don't know what happened, but it's a beast. And I'd be lying if I didn't say it's an emotional roller coaster, because it is. There are several places that rip my heart out, so I guess the first thing I want to say is: I'm sorry.

Anyway, it was my intention to post it all together as a one-shot, but, due to AO3's restrictions, I can't because it's too long. So, everywhere there would have been a scene break, I'm breaking the chapter instead, but I am posting it all together. So if you find this before all four "chapters" go up, they should be coming soon.

Also, before anyone asks about continuation, there might be a fic here and there at some point, but nothing of this magnitude ever again. I've been working on this fic for a month, and it's taken over the ton of things I need to write. So I hope you enjoy it, but please don't expect too much more from this universe. I hope you all enjoy it, and thanks for reading/commenting/reviewing. :)

Special shout-out to MysteriousTwinkie, who was awesome enough to help me with the title and look over the first scene last month when I was having trouble. Thank you so much!

Any man's death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.

— "No Man is an Island," John Donne

It's not the welcome that Oliver has spent the last five and a half years dreaming about, but it's the only one he needs. As the bus pulls into Starling City and he sets his eyes on the city, he discovers he's never felt so empty or alone in his life. He always imagined it with fanfare, with a chance to reconcile with Laurel, with Tommy's smile, his mother's embrace, and seeing the woman his sister has become in the five years stolen from him. But it's not any of those things.

There's good reason why he didn't give his name to those Chinese fishermen, why he spent those months in Hong Kong slaving away for the little pay they gave him to earn a boat ride home, when all he'd have to do is wave his name around. Because, in order to be Oliver Queen again, he would have to act as the old Ollie, who was never taken seriously, who never understood sacrifice, torment, and pain. And he doesn't think he can. That boy—that boy he had been so many lifetimes ago—was dead. He had died, not when The Queen's Gambit sank, but somewhere on the island of Lian Yu, when he had to make the first of many tough decisions.

Oliver envies the ignorance of his youth as he steps off the bus in the middle of the Glades, frowning. It's raining, but he doesn't mind the cold or the damp anymore. Too many years in the jungle have taught him how to survive, and the poor weather is only a mild inconvenience to him, something unworthy of note. It does make it more difficult, however, to avoid his reflection in the puddles left behind; the last thing he wants to see is the angry, red scar across his cheekbone or the eyelids sutured shut over his empty right eye socket. He bitterly thinks to himself that, if he were to see his family again, they wouldn't recognize the person he is. His hair is shaved close against his skull, and the stubble on his jaw helps to mask some of the scarring.

Pulling his bag up over his shoulder, and the hood of his jacket over his head, he turns toward the abandoned factory his father once owned. He's barely been in Starling City an hour, but yet he already knows where to go for the items he seeks. He doesn't know where he'll live or how he'll hide in a city so busy, but he knows that he can't wander the city freely without an identity. And he certainly can't be the man his father asked to fulfill a dying wish without a solid identity.

It's well past midnight, and even then the streets are busting in the Glades, but with a new kind of traffic. These aren't honest citizens heading to work to earn a decent day's wages; these are criminals—men who spend their time selling the newest high and women who spend their nights selling themselves to the highest bidder. Some of the women call out to him—even in the sorry state he's in now—and he ignores them, heading only for the Foundry.

Two would-be guards flank the cast iron gates, though they look bored. They're muscular and fierce, but Oliver knows that, in a fight, he could probably step over their unconscious bodies and continue toward his goal in five minutes. One eyes him carefully, while the other thinks he's going to sneak up on him by staying to Oliver's right, outside of his range of vision. But Oliver has been in plenty of fights with only one eye to help him, and he's long since adjusted to the unfair advantage he gives his opponents. And, in a world where the only options are to survive or die, he's won them all.

"State your business," the one in his range of vision says, crossing his arms over his chest. Oliver supposes it's meant to be intimidating, but he's faced things a lot scarier than a common street thug. And, besides, if anyone should be scared, it should be them. Because Oliver is a man with nothing to lose, and that makes him a particular brand of dangerous that men like these wouldn't understand.

"I'm here to see Janus," he says carefully, the words tasting odd on his tongue. Oliver can barely remember the last time he's spoken to anyone, much less in English. The last few years have been spent communicating in Russian and Mandarin, and so his own native tongue doesn't sound right to him. His voice is rusty and stale from disuse, causing it to sound particularly gravelly.

The guards pull back the gate and allow him entry into the factory that should have been his all along, and the campus is a veritable neighborhood all on its own—one that only exists at night. But, in this world, there is no anarchy like outside the gates; everyone has a job to do, and they all do them well. Oliver might even consider it a utopian society, if it wasn't made up with the undesirables of Starling City.

The stories were told even five years ago of this elusive City of the Damned, where the homeless and unwanted could live safely in the ruins of the old, decrepit buildings in the Glades. They told stories of the city within and its leader, Janus, who gave anyone a home who needed one. So, even though the rate of homelessness had spiraled out of control in the last five years, Oliver sees less people curled up on the streets than ever before.

He first heard the tale three years before the Gambit set sail, and the elite had laughed it off as an urban legend, but he's pleased to discover it does, in fact, exist. It's eerily quiet as he walks across the factory grounds toward the main building. There are men and women in old, raggedy clothes milling about, but very few of them seem to interact. Conversation is exchanged quietly in rare groups, but there isn't any violence or chaos. No one is selling drugs, is drinking themselves into any early case of cirrhosis, is attempting to sell themselves for spare pocket change. Maybe the stories are true, after all: Janus is willing to help anyone, so long as they're willing to help themselves.

Oliver hopes he isn't the exception.

He enters the factory to find it desolate and barren, as to be expected, lined with cots and items belonging to the people that call the City of the Damned home. He bypasses it with mild interest, knowing from the information he's gathered that Janus conducts business in the basement. He removes his hood finally, and no one spares him a second glance, despite his appearance. No one passes judgment here because everyone knows it isn't the outward appearance that matters. Some of the other faces are disfigured as badly as—if not worse than—his, and no one seems notice him. He thought he'd at least be seen as an outsider, but then he realizes this city is probably where outsiders seek refuge. In that sense, he's merely another face in the crowd. It's a surprisingly comforting thought.

He descends the stairs, to find less traffic on this level. It's clear that no one dares bother Janus unless they need their fearless leader's guidance and support. Or perhaps they simply allow respect for someone benevolent enough to help the people this city would prefer to leave behind. Either way, the entire lower floor is empty except for a set of desks, one facing forward and one facing behind, with a single chair between them. The front desk is covered with paperwork, but the one behind holds three state-of-the-art computers. The executive, high-backed desk chair faces the opposite direction, and he can see the screens change as someone types away at a keyboard.

A sofa sits off to one side, where someone lays, draped over it. Judging by the clothing, the person is probably male, but red hoodie and low light make it impossible to know for sure. Then a head pops up, and Oliver can tell the boy is most likely in his teenage years, with dark, spiky hair and angular features. He frowns at Oliver before asking in a hazy voice, "Practicing to be a pirate?"

"Roy, don't be rude," a voice calls from the desk, and Oliver is surprised to hear it come out sharp and decidedly feminine. Her tone softens before she says to Oliver in a flurry of words, "I'm sorry about him—he's on painkillers for some broken ribs, and he's a little high on them right now. He's usually pretty harmless. Give me one second to finish this up, and I'll be right with you."

Unsure of whether to stand or sit, Oliver waits, his bag still hanging from his shoulder. Then a minute turns into two, and he sits the bag on the floor. Surely she won't mind him resting his stiff shoulder, but he doesn't exactly want to make a poor impression in case Janus is watching. He stands between the two chairs in front of her desk, not wanting to sit without permission. Years of standing on ceremony are still hardwired into his brain, and he thinks it would be rude to take up space without permission.

When she swivels in her chair, he expects her to just simply turn to face the desk clearly used to discuss business. However, he's surprised when, after a quarter-turn, she rises from her seat, and she is the last thing he expects to see in a place like this. She looks somewhere between his own age and that of the teen on the couch, with blonde hair that falls just below her shoulder blades. Square-framed, plastic glasses cover her blue eyes, mixing between black shades at the top and more amber coloring at the bottom. Her mouth is painted in a startlingly fuchsia lipstick, the corners turned up in a slight, tentative smile.

She walks around the desk to face him, and he finds her better dressed than any he's seen here. Her black pencil skirt may not be designer—and might be shorter than most office skirts he's seen in his lifetime—but it's fairly new. She matches it with a powder pink button-down with long sleeves, and she looks like she's ready for a day at the office. Well, as she crosses her arms, he decides that perhaps not; he's never met anyone who works in an office and wears turquoise nail polish.

She studies him with intelligent eyes for a long moment, not even flinching at his severe appearance. Finally, she comments cordially to him, "You're a new face. I know everyone to ever walk into this building." She leans back against the edge of the mahogany desk. "Can you give me a name?" Oliver balks because the last thing he wants to give her is a part of his identity, but she must realize that because she smiles. "It doesn't have to be yours—just something you'll answer to. And no surnames."

He doesn't want the first words he says to her to be a lie, so he gives her the truth. "Oliver," is his answer, his voice raspy from going too long without speaking. He clears his throat, but it does nothing for his nerves. Perhaps finding refuge in the City of the Damned wasn't his best idea; it's been too long since an interaction with a person hasn't ended in violence for him.

Carefully, she holds out her hand, and it takes Oliver a moment to realize that it's meant to be an offer for a handshake. "The people who tell stories in the night know me as Janus," the little blonde informs him as they shake hands, "but my friends call me Felicity. Welcome to Charon, Oliver." There's something naturally warm about her smile, and he understands now why so many of the city's homeless go to her when all else fails: she makes them want to believe there's a way out.

Felicity radiates hope, and he finds it's a particularly dangerous feeling.

She motions to the chairs beside him, her demeanor calm and inviting. "Have a seat, Oliver. We don't stand on ceremony here," she says gently, before uncrossing her legs and circling the desk. She drops back into her chair with a rare sort of elegance, and then slides it back up to meet the desk.

"Charon?" he repeats as he takes the seat, inching it closer so that he can rest his forearms on the edge of her desk. It's an intriguing name, one that sounds familiar and foreign all at once, in the same sense of her identity as Janus.

She steeples her fingers as she rests her elbows on the desk. "In Greek mythology," she explains, "there was no concept of Heaven or Hell. They believed that, when one's life ended, they crossed the River Styx by boat, guided by the ferryman, Charon. Once they reached the opposite bank, it was then that it was decided where they would go. The heroic found their way to the fields of Elysium, while the wicked found their livers feasted upon for all eternity." She frowns. "All dark and creepily disturbing thoughts on eternal torture aside, that's what this place is." She waves a hand. "This city is a place for those who are ready and willing to start their lives over. I help guide lost souls from their last life into the next." She shrugs. "Whether that next life is Heaven, Hell, or something in between, well, that's up to you. I just help you get there—it's up to you to make it everything your past life wasn't."

For a moment Oliver wonders how in the world she ended up here, of all places, based on the way her mind works. Her speech is a little stilted and she's a little awkward, but she's one of the finest orators he's ever met, despite those flaws. In fact, he thinks that it's because of them that she's so convincing. Her last words weren't delivered like a speech—routinely given and always scripted—but flowed from within. She's exactly what these people need to band together—much like them, but with the aura of success and the dress of a professional. "So, Oliver," she starts, moving her hands to one side as she looks at him, "why is it that you decided to find me?"

He hesitates because no one in his life has ever studied him so thoroughly. She doesn't look at him—she stares into him with the piercing, studious eyes of an intellectual and natural observer. He feels thoroughly laid bare, open and exposed for her to see. "I need papers," he says finally, careful with his words. He isn't used to speaking, and he can't wield words with the same magic that she seems to use as easy as breathing.

He expects her to hesitate, but she doesn't even flinch at the idea of forging legal documents. "Do you need a full workup, Oliver, or do you have a starting point?" is her question. He hesitates because she answers so fast, and she continues, "It doesn't matter to me—I can do either. And, because we're on the fringes of society, we can get away with doing some illegal things, like forging papers. It takes longer to do a full workup—about a week, depending on how much overtime I have to log at my day job—but you can give me any name you want and I'll give you everything you need."

"I need a full workup," he says finally, though he already knew the answer to that. There's nothing he's wanted more than to leave his life as Oliver Queen behind, and this is the only way to do it. It tears him apart to leave his family, but he knows they'll do much better without him. After all, he can't be Ollie anymore, and he really doesn't want to try. Better to lie to strangers than the people he loves.

Felicity nods before grabbing a pen and paper. "Alright, I think I can do that for you, Oliver," she answers cordially, twirling her pen between her fingers. He likes that she's careful to use his name every time she speaks, and he thinks that might be her way of memorizing all these names. Hundreds live here, and though Oliver can't believe she knows all of their names, he can guess that she manages to keep quite a few straight. "I need a name for the documents. First, middle—if you want one—and last."

It takes him a moment to decide, simply because he wants one that won't make him stand out in any way, and he needs something he'll answer to well. "Eric David Wilson," he decides finally, and if Felicity has questions about the disparity between the name he gave her and the one on his documents, she doesn't show it. For once in his life, he feels like no one is judging him at every opportunity, and he thinks he might like that feeling. The last name sends a pang of grief through him, but Slade did call them brothers once, and it honors the friend that Edward Fyers murdered so brutally.

She writes it down, after asking multiple questions about the spelling. "Are you illegal or on the run?" she asks this time, causing every cell in his body to stand on high alert. She looks up, and she flushes when she realizes that the question was poorly worded. "Sorry," she adds, speaking quickly now. "I've been asking these questions so long that I expect everyone to know why I'm asking. It's just that, if you were born outside the US, it's less suspicious if I have immigration and citizenship papers. And it's easier to hack databases in foreign countries for birth certificates." She shrugs. "Less work on me, but I can do them either way." She bites her lip. "And now I'm babbling again. Please start talking before I need to fill the silence again."

He's surprised to find himself smiling—he hasn't done that in over five years, and it feels similar to the sensation of holding a bow for the first time: awkward and unnatural. "Neither," he says finally. He hasn't been in the country long enough to cause any trouble, and he was born in Starling City.

To his surprise, she scoffs. "I'll let you in on a little secret, Oliver: I've been forging papers for people since I was sixteen years old, and I've never met anyone who doesn't fall into either category." He balks in surprise; he thought she was too young to be Janus, but he just figured it was an inherited title. Now he's realizing that there might have always been one Janus who ruled Charon. She smiles. "You might be a legal citizen and you might not be on the run from the law, but it's my experience that people who need papers are running from something." She chuckles, but there doesn't seem to be much humor in the sound. "And I know because I wasn't born Felicity Meghan Smoak and this blonde hair comes out of a bottle. You're not the only one running, Oliver."

Oliver hesitates, but she seems to be waiting for him to speak. "That's a very personal thing to tell a stranger," he says finally, his voice low and tentative.

She smiles in triumph, and he thinks she might have just baited him into a conversation. "But you're not a stranger," she corrects. "Charon isn't a city, Oliver. It's a community where all are welcome and none are turned away. There are no strangers in this place. Stranger implies 'unwelcome,' and I don't turn anyone away." She frowns. "Well, unless they're perfectly willing to drown in their own misery or find themselves in drugs or alcohol. If you're willing to help yourself," she qualifies carefully, seeming to think about that wording, "then you'll always be welcome here."

Before he can speak, she picks up her pen again, saying, "And I'll need a birth year from you." She frowns. "I don't like this part, but I can't pick just anywhere for you to be born or have your record stored. I need somewhere that doesn't have a paper archive anymore—so I can just slip in and write up a certificate—or one that had its records destroyed in a fire. Date will vary based on that, too." She taps her pen against the notepad. "But if you'll tell me where you'd like your records to start, I'll do my best."

"I was born in nineteen-eighty-five," he admits finally. "In May, if that helps you." He finds himself warming up to this girl, so he's feeling a little less secretive about his information. "And I'd like to have my record show I was born in Starling, if at all possible." He hesitates before adding, "Starling City has always been my home."

"That must be a nice feeling," she says as she writes everything down. "I wish I could say the same. I've lived a lot of places," she admits carefully, "but none of them have ever felt like home." She laughs. "I found my way to Starling, and I was picking pockets to stay alive. I picked the wrong pocket one day—or maybe the right one, depending on how you choose to look at it—and the first mayor of Charon caught me and showed me this place. He became the closest thing I've ever had to a parent, and, when he died, I took over here." She smiles with nostalgia, looking away for a moment. "And I decided we needed better brand awareness, so I had a few busybodies start the rumor." She waves a hand. "But that's neither here nor there. We were doing paperwork." Oliver can't help but think that's a nice way to phrase it. "Public school will be part of the record. College education—yes or no?"

Oliver frowns because he's dropped out of four ivy league colleges, and he doesn't think that he could pull off enough knowledge for a degree in anything. "No," he decides. Then he almost asks a question, commenting, "This seems like a lot of detail for a few papers."

Felicity stops writing to look up at him, an eyebrow arched and her head tilted to the side, and Oliver decides that he's said completely the wrong thing. She waves her pen around in wild hand gestures as she says, "'A few papers'? I'm not some random hacker who does things half-assed, Oliver. You can get a fake ID from ninety percent of college students out there. Any hacker with a camera can do that." She points at him. "What I do is art. I don't just throw papers around—I grow an entire person out of these details. We're talking birth certificates, immunization records, credit scores, and discipline records from high school. I am going to create Eric David Wilson out of nothing over the next week." She crosses her arms. "I mean, some of my new IDs? They've come back to me years later, and they're pissed because they've received jury duty. My IDs are so solid that they've been integrated into the system." She taps her pen against the desk surface. "So yes, it is a lot of detail, but it's in a business where every detail counts."

He holds up his hands in a gesture of defeat, and a new voice in the room chuckles. "Felicity, don't scare the poor boy," a rich, bass voice says with a laugh. "You're pretty intimidating when you want to be, and he hasn't known you that long. Work him into your intimidating side." The man steps out of a shadowed area, and his smile softens the level of intimidation most would have when seeing his very muscular arms. Oliver studies him intently, knowing the physical threat in the room when he sees it. He extends a hand toward Oliver. "John Diggle, but most people call me Diggle or Digg. I help Felicity with this place."

Oliver shakes it, unsure of how to introduce himself. Felicity saves him, though, by answering for him, "Digg, this man will be Eric Wilson in a week, thanks to yours truly." Oliver offers her a look of uncertainty, raising an eyebrow at her, and she responds with a wink and an enigmatic, Mona Lisa smile. It's as if the name he gave her is a shared secret, a small thing between friends. "So," she starts, this time her question aimed at Diggle, "are you headed out for the night?"

Diggle nods. "Yeah, I think so," he replies. He chuckles quietly. "After all, I'm going to need some sleep if I'm supposed to keep up with Thea in the morning. That girl is constantly in motion." The words are said with indulgence, as if his heart isn't in the complaining.

Oliver can't help but sit up straighter in his chair, oblivious to Felicity's watchful eyes flicking to him for a second. It's an uncommon name, and Oliver dares himself to hope that they're talking about his sister. He's been wanting news since he stepped foot in Starling City. Part of him wanted to visit her—and his mother—from the first moment his feet touched soil in the city limits, but he knows that if he did, he'd never be able to blend into the city. He can never go home; if he does, he knows he'll stay. Even miles away from home, he finds it hard to resist the temptation, and, truthfully, if it wasn't for his father's dying wish, Oliver never would have returned to Starling City.

Felicity rolls her eyes at the bigger man. "Please, Digg, spare us the theatrics," she teases. "You've loved that girl since you started working there four years ago. And I can't blame you—she's a sweet girl when she wants to be. A bit misguided sometimes, but a genuinely decent girl." She turns that smile on Oliver. "Digg found a new start here, too, once upon a time," she explains. "Now, he works as Thea Queen's driver, when he's not down here serving as my right-hand man."

She's waiting for a response, so Oliver dutifully turns to Diggle. "That must be a challenging job at times," he baits carefully, and this time he sees the twist of Felicity's mouth, a thoughtful expression. He decides he doesn't like the way her blue eyes seem to peer through him anymore. She's too observant, and while he didn't think he'd ever think that about anyone, she's far too intelligent for her own good.

"It can be," Diggle admits quietly. "The girl has been through a lot—losing her brother and father at the same time. But she's tougher than you'd think, even though sometimes she does sink into drugs and alcohol." It's the last thing Oliver wants to hear about his sister; he could help ease that pain, but he can't be her brother and fulfill their father's wishes. Putting the city first is suddenly an impossible decision that he never wanted. Surely his father wouldn't want him to let his sister linger in that dark place. But then Oliver remembers that Thea and his mother are why he wants to do it in the first place—he wants to make Starling City safer for them all.

Even if he has to do it while they think he's buried at sea.

Diggle waves to Felicity. "Goodnight," he says. Then he calls, "Goodnight, Harper." With that, he's gone, leaving Oliver to deal with the fallout and indecision of his words.

Felicity smiles at Oliver. "You're welcome to stay here while you're waiting for me to finish your IDs," she says, as though Diggle was a mere interruption. "We have running water, a few cots, and plenty of spare clothes, if you're interested."

Oliver has thought of a thousand reasons why he should stay with these people, but the one opposing though is the one that changes his mind: he can't be the hero this city needs from a less-than-legal homeless shelter. "Thank you," he says quietly, "but I think it would be better if I moved on." Hesitantly, he adds, "I'm used to being alone."

Her smile stays in place, but her eyes seem less vibrant, as though she understands his pain. "I understand," she says easily, with far more understanding than he'd like to hear. "If that's the case, come see me in three days to see how things are going." She picks up a business card from her desk and hands it to him. "I'm not here every night—Diggle and I take turns on the night shift. You can contact me at any of those numbers or places—if I'm not here, I'll be there."

Oliver examines the card, surprised to find a cell, home, and office number printed on the back, as well as an address on the other side, under the name Felicity Smoak. He frowns as he reads her work address, under the heading, Queen Consolidated - IT Department. "I probably won't contact you at work," he says slowly, carefully. "I wouldn't exactly fit in at Queen Consolidated."

She waves a hand, smiling as if she had anticipated that response. "No one would think twice about it," she corrects him. With an amused smile, she adds, "Everyone thinks I spend my weekends working at a homeless shelter. They're used to the people of Charon visiting me when necessary. I don't think anyone notices anymore." She shrugs. "It's your choice, but you're certainly welcome anywhere you choose to find me."

He turns to leave, but she calls, "Oliver?" He turns on the spot, fixing her with a question in his expression. She bites her lip, hesitating for the first time tonight. Even through her babbling and excessive rambling, she hasn't hesitated yet. "I understand the familiarity that comes with being alone," she starts slowly, "but that doesn't mean you have to be alone." The corners of her mouth turn up into a knowing smile. "My father—my adoptive father—had a favorite quote: 'No man is an island, / Entire of itself, / Every man is a piece of the continent, / A part of the main.'" She crosses her arms, slowly walking around the desk. "While the rest of the world may have forgotten that no one is an outcast, we haven't." She walks up to him, moving slowly so he understands her movements. Her hand falls on his shoulder. "Good luck, Oliver." He understands that it's the nicest thing she can say at this point. She can't wish him a happy future or a good turn of events, but she can wish him luck in his future endeavors, hope that his future is brighter than his past.

And, perhaps, against his better judgment, he likes her. Part of Oliver can imagine a life in Charon, helping wayward souls like himself. And Felicity's sincere understanding and lack of judgment, while unfamiliar, isn't an unwelcome change. In just a few minutes, they've become something almost like friends. And though, in Oliver's experience, friends only lead to pain, it's nice to think of her as an ally—even though he might want her as a partner in his missions instead. But that's a question he'll never ask her because no one can be trusted and he will not endanger anyone because he's been alone for perhaps a little too long.

And it's then that he knows he'll eventually find his way back to Felicity Smoak—even after she gives him his papers.

This is the playlist for the entire fic, which is why it's so long. I don't think it will spoil anything, so I'm just going to list it here:

01. "Fake Your Death" - My Chemical Romance
02. "Never Forever" - Elysion
03. "God Help the Outcasts" - Heidi Mollenhauer
04. "Monsoon" - Tokio Hotel
05. "Burn Bright" - My Chemical Romance
06. "Surrender the Night" - My Chemical Romance
07. "Wreckage" - Ben Jelen
08. "Viva la Vida" - Coldplay
09. "Life After You" - Daughtry
10. "Feels Like Tonight" - Daughtry
11. "Savages" - Theory of a Deadman feat. Alice Cooper
12. "Creep" - Radiohead
13. "Cause Disarray" - Galneryus
14. "The Whole World is Watching" - Within Temptation feat. Dave Pirner
15. "The World is Ugly" - My Chemical Romance