Chapter Text
“Felicity?”
Felicity quickly raised her head and plucked the pen from her mouth, hoping she hadn’t left behind any ink stains. The man standing in her office doorway was tall, but he didn’t have the confidence to pull it off – hence the slouch to his shoulders. That, in addition to his deep voice, had saddled him with the unfortunate nickname of ‘Lurch’.
Not that anyone called him that to his face. He was the boss after all - well, the supervisor of her supervisor. And he was pretty decent, as far as bosses went.
“Yes, Mr. Eckleton?” she replied, brightly. She’d discovered over the past year the exact balance of polite and peppy that kept Lurch at bay. If you were too sullen, he’d start worrying you were depressed (and apparently ‘depressed workers were not productive workers’), which would lead to lots of chats and check-ins. If you were too happy, he tended to mistake that for flirtation, which also led to lots of chats and check-ins.
And Felicity preferred to work alone, and uninterrupted.
“Be here promptly tomorrow morning. Walter Steele is sending someone to you for a consult.”
“Oh, okay,” she replied, a little taken aback.
Lurch obviously sensed her confusion, so he gave her a small smile and an explanation. “He asked me for the best, most reliable IT person we had, and I gave him your name.”
“Um, thank you.”
Felicity knew she was the best, she was just a little surprised her supervisors realised it too. And a little worried. With recognition, came promotion. And with that, came more recognition.
And she liked her anonymity.
“It’s true, Felicity. You are the best here, and you’re far too qualified for the work you’re doing. I think if you impress Walter’s friend, it would do wonders for your career. There’s an opening coming up in Applied Scie-”
“Thank you, Mr Eckleton,” she interrupted. “But I’m happy with my job and I’m not looking to move up the ladder.”
He frowned at her, obviously wondering how she could be happy crawling around on the floor fixing wires and rebooting clueless executive’s computers all day, every day.
And sometimes… she wondered that too.
This was not the career path she’d envisaged when she’d set off for MIT. She’d had ambition, back then. Goals and five-year plans and aspirations. She was going to change the world.
But that was all BC – Before Cooper.
Before she’d fallen in love. Before she’d fallen into Hacktivism. Before she’d created a virus so dangerous it had led to her boyfriend’s incarceration and death.
After her graduation, she’d declined the prestigious job invitations from NASA and Homeland Security. Instead, she’d applied for an entry-level IT position at Queen Consolidated, on the other side of the country from Boston.
And here she was, a year later, still in the same position.
She’d tried to convince herself that it was safer this way. That her genius was too dangerous to be let loose with unlimited funding and support. That she couldn’t trust herself not to create something destructive again.
But the truth was…this was her penance. Her self-imposed punishment. Cooper took the blame for their hack, and then he took his life.
She didn’t deserve anything more than this.
* * * *
What’s your objective?
Each name in his father’s notebook was a mission. Each mission had an objective. All he had to do was determine the specific aims needed to achieve that objective, carry them out, and the mission was completed. Another name could be crossed off the list.
Another name. Another mission.
Another act of penance on behalf of his family.
What’s your objective?
It was easy to focus on the mission when he was isolated in the dark foundry in the Glades. When his world was nothing but the burn of his muscles as he trained, the thwick of an arrow as he practised…
But the world beyond his sanctuary pulled his focus. His mother, his sister, Walter, Tommy, even Diggle the bodyguard. They all had expectations of him, of the way he should behave, of what he should be doing with his life. The façade he’d created to appease them was wearing thin. And the effort to maintain it was a distraction he couldn’t afford.
What’s your objective?
The question anchored him. Helped him block out all of the noise, and concentrate on the task at hand.
What’s your objective?
Sometimes the words were spoken with Slade’s Australian twang. Sometimes it was whispered in Shado’s soft dulcet tones. Presently, it was Amanda Waller’s cool, dispassionate voice:
What’s your objective?
His objective was to find Floyd Lawton - AKA Deadshot - and kill him.
What are your aims?
Access the data on the damaged laptop. Use it to determine Lawton’s next target. Intercept, then eliminate.
Time for step one.
Oliver rechecked the name and office number on the note bearing Walter’s neat script, then tucked it back in his pocket.
Felicity Smoak, IT Department, Level 3, room 20
Felicity. Felicity. Fe-lic-ity.
Oliver silently repeated the name as he walked through the halls of the IT department. The syllables of the pretty name danced over his tongue, momentarily blocking out Amanda’s tactical refrain. Then he shook his head at the fanciful distraction and forced his features into his ‘Ollie the playboy’ mask.
With his frown smoothed out, his eyebrows raised and a cocky grin in place, he stepped through the open door of office ‘20’. The colourful walls of the small room glowed and the collection of knick-knacks on the cluttered desk reflected the bright afternoon sunshine streaming through the windows. The office seemed completely appropriate for a person named Felicity, and the thought turned his arrogant grin into a sincere smile.
“Felicity Smoak?”
The bald, sweaty head that popped out from beneath the desk at his call, definitely did not suit the name Felicity.
“Do I look like Felicity Smoak?” the mouth attached to the bald head sneered.
“No,” Oliver replied, his frown firmly back in place. “But I was told by Walter Steele that this was her office. Is she here today?”
“No,” grunted the bald man. “I’m filling in for her – which would be fine if this place didn’t look like a Disney princess threw up on it.” The latter was said under his breath as he heaved himself to his feet. He straightened his tie, met Oliver’s eyes and attempted a more professional greeting. “I’m Brian Scott, what can I do for you?”
Oliver hesitated. Walter had assured him that Miss Smoak was a tech genius and, more importantly, was loyal and discreet. Characteristics he needed when handing over an assassin’s bullet ridden laptop in his guise as innocent, harmless Oliver Queen.
He didn’t know this Brian guy. And he wasn’t getting a trustworthy vibe from him. “Nothing, Brian. Sorry to interrupt. Do you know when Miss Smoak will be back?”
“Last minute vacation, or something like that. I don’t really know the details – I just go where they send me.”
“Okay. Well, thanks anyway,” Oliver replied, wincing internally at his overly jovial response. He needed to learn to tone it down a bit. Ollie Queen had never been that polite – especially to the underlings working for his family’s company.
As he retraced his steps through the maze-like corridors of the IT department, and out the into the lobby of the building, Oliver stopped worrying about the validity of his ‘Ollie’ persona and started worrying about his mission.
His aims and objective.
The laptop was a bust. So he needed to figure out Lawton’s target the old-fashioned way – reconnaissance and interrogation.
Who needed IT girls anyway.