Context in the Arrow world:
So this is a sequel to You're His Hope, and I realize that it's not gonna be about the League, which makes it a season 3 AU at this point, I guess.
It might get twisty/slow on updating because this is a pretty weird plot, even by my standards. Chapter 2 alone is a sign that this whole fic might de-rail into shamelessly fluffy territory. Bah, where is plot when these two idiots are so cute? Also, I'll try to keep it shorter than You're His Hope — that REALLY went too far over the word limit, and I do apologize for that.
Anyways, if you decide to sign on for this craziness, thank you and I apologize in advance.
Cheers,
ChronicOlicity
Down the Rabbit Hole
The train whistled into Starling Central, rolling up to the platform with nail-biting slowness. Felicity was already at the doors, trying not to bounce on her heels even though she was itching to hack the train operating systems and bust the doors open herself.
She'd thought it was going to be a quiet night, what with the late train from Central City and a ringing in her ears from a metahuman with both evil genius-level intellect and a sonic scream that could give the Canary Cry a run for its money. Unfortunately, quiet night was ranked pretty high on the list of Things That Never Happen in Starling City, along with Oliver choosing not to suit up.
But that was another thing entirely.
Her phone buzzed for the third time in the last five minutes — SOS from the Foundry. As soon as the doors opened, she was out onto the platform and racing for a cab.
"Felicity, where are you?" said Diggle, sounding a little nonplussed by what she imagined was a medley of facial recognition and traffic cam systems.
Her shoulder was already pounding from a hit-and-run, but she had no time to stop.
"My train just got in — delays, you don't wanna know — so how bad is it?" Standing at the edge of the curb, Felicity shoved her phone between her shoulder and ear and waved at incoming traffic like she was trying to catch the attention of a faraway ship.
"Pretty bad. I think I hit something I wasn't supposed to — everything on the screen is orange…" Diggle sighed at something she couldn't see. "And now there's a countdown."
Felicity winced. "Frack. Forgot I put a self-erase protocol on the computers. Okay — don't panic — how long do we have?"
"I went on three tours in Afghanistan — I don't panic. And we have three minutes before the system implodes."
Plenty of time. Felicity hauled the cab door open and barreled inside. "Verdant, please — and there's a huge tip for you if the music goes way up and you do not pay attention to anything I say from here on out."
"What — the nightclub?" The driver turned in his seat to give her a look, appraising her in full dirt-on-her-skirt and sans-nightclub-preparedness glory. "You sure you want to go to a nightclub like that?" he asked, sarcastically.
Felicity bit back a sharp retort. Starling City cab drivers were an unapologetically rude tribe, and she was on a clock. "Big, big tip," she repeated.
The driver sighed, as if resigning himself to another weirdo passenger. "You got it, lady."
"Diggle? Yeah —" Felicity reached into her bag for her tablet with one hand, buckling her seatbelt with the other. "— patching in now."
"The Count stole a truck and loaded it with enough Vertigo to cover the Glades — I was running the plate numbers when the computers shut down."
"Got it." Felicity dropped her phone onto the seat and adjusted her earpiece, flinching at the sound of gunfire blasting through the comms. She saw the taxi driver give her a weird look in the rearview mirror and cleared her throat, loudly. Nothing to see here, sir.
All in all, a terrible time to take a personal day. After about three escape attempts, Felicity wondered when the police were going to start using zip-ties on Zyrtle. Count Vertigo was a stupid name, but the number of (successful, by the way) escape attempts was an obvious indicator that he needed to be taken seriously.
Semi-seriously, at least.
Felicity shook off the irritation — and the fatigue. She had to focus. They were still a well-tuned archery/crime-fighting machine. Bad guys still went for the obligatory getaway truck, and she still needed to make sure that the good guys going after them didn't get themselves killed.
Felicity's hands flew across the screen in the half-shadow of the cab, her mind already racing through the routines of keeping up with the team on one of their high-speed chases.
"Where is he?" she asked.
Oliver crouched in the shadows at the roof edge, watching the road below him for his mark. Somewhere off in the Glades, a siren wailed and reminded him that this was just one of many trouble zones in his city.
They had a job to do, and they needed to do it quick.
"Next time," Roy grunted, his elbows thudding hollow on the back of a steel truck, "you hang onto the roof, and I get to do the jump."
"With pleasure," said Oliver, reaching for an arrow. "Location?"
"Coming in hot. I'm the guy in red."
Oliver rolled his eyes at Roy's sarcasm and let out an involuntary breath as he straightened up on the ledge, his back to the road. The night wind gusted behind him, but his training kept him steady as an arrow, balanced to deadly precision.
The truck tore into the street with a screech of tires. Oliver's foot sent a shower of grit into the street below.
"Ready?" Roy asked.
"Ready," said Oliver, and stepped smoothly off the side of the roof.
His arrow disappeared into the night, the attached wire arcing into a smooth curve as Oliver fell through the air. Then, because he couldn't have heard anything over the sound of the wind tearing past his ears, the wire jerked taut and he twisted mid-air, directing the momentum of his fall towards the roof of Count Vertigo's getaway truck.
Roy looked up from a handful of exploding arrows when Oliver landed beside him, bow at his side. "Careful, he's got a friend and —"
Oliver had already swung down to the side of the truck, and as soon as he did, gunfire blew through the glass window, barely missing his shoulder. The Count took a sharp turn, and there was a brief moment of weightlessness when Oliver's body swung away from the truck, and he was just hanging on by one arm.
Oliver gritted his teeth as the muscles in his shoulder protested from the strain, his free hand going to his ear.
"Felicity?" he shouted, over the wind.
Thank God she answered — but she always did.
"Why the window?" Felicity demanded. "What is with you and hanging out of windows?"
The Count made another sharp turn, swinging Oliver out towards an oncoming streetlight. "Felicity — maybe we can discuss this —" He kicked off the metal post "— later!"
She said a rude word that was lost over the comms, but he could hear her typing. "Try to get him into 52nd Street," said Felicity, nearly drowned out by the sounds of late-night radio. "Backup's waiting for you there."
"Right." Oliver wrenched the door free and seized the barrel of the semi-automatic as soon as the henchman tried to shoot, slamming the butt of the rifle into his face. Then he grabbed the shooter by the front of his shirt and tossed him out of the way before swinging into the front seat.
Steel flashed — the Count's trademark drugged darts — and Oliver felt it pass his cheek before it went out the window in a flicker of metal. He'd had enough experience with the hallucinogenic effects for one lifetime.
"Take a left — Oliver — left!"
The roof over their heads thudded from a landing, and Roy came down on the other side of the truck without warning. Oliver braced himself for the explosion — but the steel around them still lurched when it came. Metal screeched as the steel container at the back of the truck slid loose, because Roy had destroyed the joints holding it in place.
In the confusion, Oliver seized the chance and hauled at the steering wheel — sending the van hurtling down 52nd. The headlights blazed across broken glass and concrete — growing whiter still on a figure in the middle of the road, a flash of pale skin and a dark hood, an arrow trained on the truck, blazing brighter than a star.
Oliver ducked at the distinctive sound of a fired arrow, and a millisecond later, the truck lifted off the ground from an explosion at the front wheels, suspended weightlessly for a second too long before slamming into the ground again. The windshield shattered on impact, and Oliver could only hold on as the truck spun to a screeching halt in the middle of the road.
With a grunt, Roy kicked the truck door open and tossed an unconscious Zytle down to the road, before slumping against the ripped leather seats.
"I think she's getting better," he gasped.
Oliver's ears were still ringing from the explosion when the truck door on his side abruptly opened, spilling broken glass onto the pavement.
"Hey Ollie," said Thea, breathlessly. "How'd I do?"
Zyrtle twitched unconscious on the concrete, his hands tied behind his back. Oliver checked the bindings before he straightened up, shattered glass still falling from the shoulders of his suit like rain.
Behind him, Thea made a sound of annoyance and yanked the faded red hood from her head. The short curls at the back of her head stuck up like porcupine quills, but she didn't seem to notice as she tipped her head back and gulped fresh air like she'd been drowning in the oversized sweatshirt.
"I really need a better disguise," she said, slinging the bow across her back. "I can't fight crime in a hoodie."
"Hey," said Roy, poking at a cut in his sleeve. "That's my hoodie."
Thea poked her tongue out at him. "I know, Abercrombie."
Roy was about to retort when Oliver cleared his throat. "Thea, we'll talk about the disguise later." He pointed at the truck, two smoking arrows embedded in the front tires. "How close were you to the truck when it stopped?"
Thea gestured half-heartedly with her hands. "A foot, I guess."
"If one of Zytle's men had still been in the truck, it wouldn't have stopped in time because of the extra weight. Before you shoot, you need to factor in your surroundings and make the assessment for yourself," Oliver said, evenly.
"I didn't take physics in high school," Thea retorted, "and who has the time to do all those calculations when there's a freight truck coming at them?"
Oliver didn't say anything, and she sighed in resignation. "Apparently, I do."
Roy snorted. "Told you he was easy to live with."
"You asked me to teach you," Oliver reminded her. "I'm teaching you how to stay alive — how a few seconds and a choice can mean the difference between accomplishing the objective and sustaining a serious injury."
Thea was a Queen, and in the last few months of training together, that fact had become even more apparent in certain instances of teaching she disagreed with. Queens were prideful creatures — he was no exception, as his friends could attest — and sometimes getting burned was the only way for them to learn. But Oliver was determined not to let that happen to his only family left in the world.
Instead of bristling like Oliver expected her to, Thea nodded. "I'll be more careful," she promised. "Next time."
That was another promise of her own, and Oliver nodded, because he believed her.
They all turned at the wail of a police siren, drawing closer.
"Let's go," said Oliver, and led them into the shadows.
When the cab pulled up outside Verdant, Felicity sheepishly handed the driver nearly twice the number on the meter, hoping that she conveyed a silent aura of can't-tell-you-or-I'll-have-to-kill-you. Basically, just Oliver's face when anyone asked a question.
Maybe the flowers on her dress detracted her air of badassery, but the driver took the money with a surprisingly non-threatening air.
"Don't worry, I have a teenage son and he plays that — uh — whatchamacallit —" He tapped the side of his head, forgetting the word, "— computer thing where everyone's either a dwarf or an elf. Doesn't get up from behind his computer all day, so don't worry, lady, you do what you gotta do. Hope you gave those — uh — monsters hell."
He'd already subsided back into the front seat, counting his cash, leaving Felicity with a highly conflicted set of emotions. On the one hand, she didn't have any explaining to do. On the other, fantasy RPGs weren't really her thing, as opposed to Tetris and binge-watching on Netflix.
Who was she to turn down a perfectly plausible cover story? Especially since she had a profound lack of talent when it came to fabricating excuses.
"Right," said Felicity. "Orcs — rangers — and stuff —" Why was the cab seat suddenly so slippery? Felicity grabbed her stuff just before she fell out of the cab, and a couple of giggling (and obviously wasted) girls piled inside. "—Live long and prosper!" she called, before the door slammed.
Felicity flicked her own forehead. "Wrong fandom," she muttered, hitching the strap of her bag up over her shoulder.
The Verdant sign flickered overhead as she walked into the alley alone, her head bent against the wind and the sound of some very drunk people stumbling out of the club. She'd done this hundreds of times before, but tonight she paused, her hand on the door — the door that led down to the basement.
The adrenaline rush was starting to recede, and in its wake, a dull hum of unease traveled the length of her spine.
It was the uneasy feeling that she was being watched. But when she turned back — there were only clouds of steam, billowing white from the grates in the rain-washed concrete.
Just her imagination.
Hopefully.
Even though Felicity knew that Diggle was going to be waiting for her in the Foundry, she still jumped when he stepped out of the shadows, slamming into one of the metal columns.
"Sorry, sorry," she said, giving him a quick hug. Her arms were prickled with goosebumps. "I swear, keeping secrets is not good for my nerves — secrets plus alleyways plus weird noises equals blargh —" She made a vague twisty gesture behind her head.
"Felicity," said Diggle, with his usual pragmatism. "We do keep secrets for a living."
"I know." Felicity looked at him from across the table. "But this is just between us, remember?"
Diggle went very still, his palm flat on the reflective steel surface. "You found something?"
Felicity reached for her bag, unable to explain her sudden reluctance. One of the reasons she'd gone to Central City in the first place (besides checking in on Team Flash, ha-ha, Cisco finally got to her with the name) was to look for the file herself.
"Barry got me the file on unexplained homicides," she said, and hesitated before adding, "the shootings."
Diggle watched as she removed the flash drive from her purse, holding it up in front of her, a choice for him to make. One last choice. "Are you sure you want this?" she asked. "Barry knows — better than anyone — what it's like. Chasing a killer who murdered someone you love…what it can do to you. Are you sure you want to go down this rabbit hole again?"
Diggle's expression was of morbid amusement, as if he'd just thought of something darkly ironic. "You know, I used to think I'd made my peace with unanswered questions – what with a wife who's a spy, and a best friend who plays things excessively close to the chest."
"But?" Felicity said, and the word shivered in the still Foundry air.
Felicity had known Diggle for a long time. She'd seen him as a father, as a soldier, and a friend. He'd always been the voice of reason, the one who always — always — knew what to do.
But she'd never seen him look as unsure as she did now. It flickered across his face, the doubts soon overpowered by the constancy of raw emotion — the wounds still fresh from the unexplained death, the loss of someone very dear to him, his very own ghost.
Diggle looked up from his splayed hands.
"For Andy," he said, hoarsely. "I have to know."
Felicity nodded, and slipped the flash drive into his hand. "Good luck, John," she whispered, folding his fingers closed around it — their secret. "Good luck."
P.S.: (Totally Legit Question Here) what is olicitysquee?
P.P.S.: Am I the only one who can't stop laughing at the picture of Diggle and Oliver chained up?
