Oliver sat, glaring at the laptop in front of him. The bullet-riddled machine was useless. A possible mother-load of valuable information was locked inside a dark, impenetrable hard drive.
Frustrated, he threw a coffee mug across the foundry and watched it smash to pieces against a concrete pillar. The rage in his chest only intensified, so he stood up and walked to the salmon ladder. For the next fifteen minutes, he climbed and descended the steel contraption as he thought of possible next moves.
James Holder died at the hands of Floyd Lawton before Oliver could get the information he needed. Before he could invoke the justice that Holden's victims deserved. And the laptop was Oliver's only lead.
A bullet-riddled, useless pile of metal.
He violently threw the salmon ladder bar to his side and stalked back over to the makeshift workstation in the middle of the foundry.
He needed an expert. Someone who could unlock the secrets of the laptop. Someone he could trust not to expose him.
He had no one. He had nothing and he cursed himself for an isolation-induced, unobtainable dream of inflicting revenge on the wicked men and women in Starling City. Nothing was happening the way he imagined it would. While alone on the island, he had one solitary thought: return to Starling City to make sure justice was served. Right the wrongs of his father. Stop the men and women who's names were in the wretched book he found on his father's corpse.
But his plans to take control of the spiraling city were complicated by something he never considered. People. Being around other people was decidedly difficult. Socializing was a foreign concept to this new Oliver. It had been years since his mind and soul were at ease. He longed for his isolated island. The tortures of Lian Yu were nothing compared to the torture of a mother that needed to believe that the past five years had never happened. A woman doting on her returned son. A woman ignoring the signs that her son had not actually returned.
Oliver Queen died in that ocean. Something else was born on that island and he had no patience for socialite dinners and company tours.
He had no patience for assassins who get in the way or damaged computers.
He had wanted to do this alone. To avoid any connections to other human beings. Just justice. He had nothing else left in him and he believed nothing good could be found in him again. Why bother trying to re-acclimate?
He drew in a deep breath and picked up his bow, firing arrow after arrow into the far wall.
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Oliver groaned as he dismounted his bike in front of Queen Consolidated. He placed his helmet on the seat and retrieved the laptop from the side bag.
After hours of research, he decided to ask for help from an unassuming woman in the I.T. Department at Queen Consolidated. First, he was a Queen, so he could use his name to feign authority. Second, she was a woman. He wasn't trying to be sexist, but he figured he had a better chance of sweet talking a woman than a man. Third, she was brilliant. A genius level graduate of MIT who was top of her class and was offered jobs at many top corporations around the country. Fourth, her background implied that she would be discreet. Oliver found a reference to a secret student group that dared to hack into an academic department database to expose the wrongdoings of an MIT professor. The police only had rumors and while they interrogated several students, trying to find the culprits, none of the students claimed any knowledge of the incident. The police found no evidence and the case went cold. But, the hackers succeeded in their goal - the professor was fired and prosecuted for his illegal activity. Though there was no evidence to link Felicity Smoak to the group that was rumored to be responsible, Oliver found many seemingly insignificant clues that told him that she was, in fact, one of the hackers. And finally, he uncovered that she was a member of a mystery club. It was a long-shot, but maybe she would be drawn in to helping him because of the intrigue.
As he traveled toward the I.T. department, Oliver hoped his gamble paid off. He needed to know what was on the laptop and he needed this woman to keep it a secret. He prayed his flirtation skills were still buried within him somewhere.
When he first entered the office, he found a curly-haired, blond, bespectacled woman in pink, chewing on a pen and rummaging through paperwork. She didn't notice him.
"Felicity Smoak?" he inquired, even though her name plate said as much.
She turned suddenly and stared dumbfounded.
"Hi, I'm Oliver Queen," though he hoped she already knew who he was.
"Of course! I know who you are. You're Mr. Queen," she responded, her eyes darted in every direction. Oliver sensed she was nervous. Nervous to talk to the prodigal son of the company? Oliver could work with that, but he also needed her to feel comfortable with him.
"Nooo. Mr. Queen was my father," he replied, hoping he added enough charm to the statement to draw her in. But as soon as he finished speaking, she was responding.
"Right, but he's dead. I mean he drowned!"
What? Oliver thought to himself as he watched her flounder in her own words. But he couldn't dwell on the faux pas long, as she continued talking quickly.
"But you didn't...which means you could come down to the I.T. Department and listen to me babble."
Was she for real? he thought as he watched her compose herself.
"Which will end. In 3, 2, 1."
Oliver jumped in at the first sign that she was going to stop talking, "I'm having some trouble with my computer and they told me that you were the person to come and see."
He prayed she didn't ask who 'they' were. He placed the laptop on the corner of her desk and took a deep breath.
Here goes.
"I was at my coffee shop, surfing the web and I spilled a latte on it."
"Really." She wasn't asking.
"Yeah." Shit.
"'Cause, these look like bullet holes," she said, looking at him like he was the lying fool he absolutely was.
"My coffee shop is in a bad neighborhood," He closed his eyes for split second. Smooth.
He opened his eyes and found her glaring at him, head tilted, lips pursed.
Heh. Cute. Wait. What the hell?
He quickly composed himself, "If there is anything that you can salvage from it, I would really appreciate it."
He hoped her curiosity would override any desire she might have had to hand him over to security.
She silently agreed, but her body language said she wasn't stupid.
"Thank you. Please call me when you have something," he quickly handed her his number and turned to leave the office.
He walked at a fast pace, so distracted by his racing heart and startled brain that he slammed into a dark-haired man in the hall.
"Watch it!" the man said and looked up, "Oh, Mr. Queen. I..."
"Sorry," Oliver mumbled and kept walking.
What. The. Hell. How did she throw him off balance like that? Why did he feel like he was five years old and caught with his hand in the cookie jar?
When he reached the curb, he grabbed the helmet and straddled his bike. He shook his head before forcefully shoving the helmet on and driving off, leaving an intrigued I.T. girl gazing after him from her window.
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Several hours later, Oliver got a call from Felicity that she had managed to retrieve several files from the laptop's hard drive. He agreed to meet her at her office.
He took a deep breath after he hung up the phone and vowed to avoid the debacle of earlier in the day. Business. Get the information, get out. Avoid eye contact.
This woman made him more uneasy than the murderers in Starling City's dark alleys. What. The. Hell.
As he mounted his bike to head to Queen Consolidated, he found that he didn't entirely dislike the idea of returning to her presence. She was unnerving, yes, but it was...invigorating.
He hadn't felt that way in a long, long time.
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In her quiet corner office, Oliver sat next to Felicity as she pulled up the files she had retrieved. She smelled clean.
That was an odd thing to notice, he thought.
"Looks like blueprints," he heard her say and he refocused his attention to the screen and away from her scent.
"Do you know what of?" he stared straight ahead, avoiding looking at her.
"The Exchange Building," she answered. He felt her glance at him. He kept his gaze on the screen.
"Never heard of it."
"It's where the Unidac Industries auction is scheduled to take place," she revealed, looking at him. He finally looked in her direction. He had no idea what to do with that information.
"I thought you said this was your laptop."
Shit.
"Yes," he nodded slowly. She wasn't buying it.
Dammit.
"Look," she glared at him and smiled unhappily.
How is that possible?
"I don't want to get in the middle of some Shakespearean family drama thing."
"What?" he was genuinely confused.
"Mr. Steele marrying your mom," she said, as if it should have been the first thing he had thought of.
His brain hurt. What the hell was going on?
"Claudius. Gertrude," she waved her hand, "Hamlet?"
God, he felt like such a frat boy. Might as well go with it.
"I didn't study Shakespeare at any of the four schools that I dropped out of," Yes, I'm clueless. Let's move on.
She took a breath and nodded. Oliver secretly thanked the gods of everything that she was going to explain.
"Mr. Steele is trying to buy Unidac Industries."
Oliver nodded. Clear as mud.
"And you've got a company laptop belonging to one of the guys he's competing against," she continued.
Oliver felt a flicker of relief that he finally knew one of the answers and quickly shared the information.
"Floyd Lawton."
"No."
What?! DAMMIT.
"Warren Patel," she revealed, pointing at the name on the screen.
Okay, that name was new. Now they were getting somewhere.
"Who's Floyd Lawton?" she inquired about the random name drop.
Oliver realized he revealed a little too much in front of a woman that didn't miss anything. He growled at himself and yielded the information.
"He is...an employee of Mr. Patel, evidently."
Felicity didn't respond immediately, so Oliver took the opportunity to quickly thank her and retrieve the laptop. He fumbled as the cables connecting the laptop to her computer halted his hasty escape. Felicity quietly detached the cables and sat back in her chair as a frustrated Oliver stalked out of her office.
As Oliver dashed down the hall, he could only think of two things:
Warren Patel and black painted fingernails on brilliant I.T. girls.
What. the. hell.