John groans and thunks his head against the bar, sighs, and strips off his shirt and jacket, his multitude of scars and tattoos suddenly visible. As he places his hands on the counter and swears in several languages, he stares at them both. The air crackles and above the bar lights zap into being, lines crossing and recrossing each other, with dates attached to points along those lines, and not in order.

"I hate time travel," he mutters, and then speaks to it, "time is never simple, never easy, but this is an extraordinary circumstance. I'm from your future, Oliver and so, I suspect, is Miss Lance. And yes, I've been to Star City since the meeting you recall. But the occurrence is... complicated and could be made more so."

He stops there, eyes on Sara's. There is compassion there, but also a certain amount of determination. Sorry, Sara. John's not stopping.

"Let me guess. Either bloody Braniac 5 or Rip fucking Hunter."

Then his eyes flick back to Oliver's. "Trust." One word, heavy, and not asking. But hoping. "Otherwise, this is all fucked."