There are mentions of violence against women in this piece. Nothing is described explicitly, but if this is a trigger for you please be aware.
These are the things, the things we lost—the things we lost in the Fire
Do you understand that we will never be the same again?
The future's in our hands, and we will never be the same again.
These are the things, the things we lost—
The things we lost in the Fire.
Fire.
Fire.
Bastille, "Things We Lost in the Fire"
Bad Blood (2013)
. . .
"What is your mission, Ta-er al-Sahfer?"
"To eliminate the target and destroy all his holdings."
"It must be done properly. We cannot have any others stepping into the vacuum of power left behind. You will need to acquire an accomplice who can make sure of this."
"How?"
"The target is a citizen of Boston City. They have a school of technology there where you will find what you need."
"Yes, Sahib."
"After you have made use of this accomplice, you will dispose of it."
"Yes, Sahib."
"We are fighting a war, Al-Sahfer. In the course of saving many, a few must fall."
"Yes, Sahib."
. . .
December, 2008.
It is the first time in almost two years that the Canary has stepped on American soil. Part of her thought it would feel different, being back after so long, but the ground beneath her feet feels disappointingly like ground—the kind you can find anywhere.
It's strange wearing jeans. They're stiffer than she remembers, and the crease that runs through her crotch chafes. But for a moment, standing on the MIT campus wearing jeans and a nondescript hoodie, the Canary is not an international assassin or part of a league that deals in death and shadows.
She is a college student.
She is twenty-one and stupid and—
And the boy walking toward her is not a target, is not an enemy. He is stupid and horny. He might be hoping to tempt her into bed with the paltry line he has tucked up his sleeve. He might prefer men.
It would take three-point-five seconds to incapacitate him. Two, if she lands a combo. Jab. Sweep. Thrust. Slash. The Canary could kill him before he had time to draw breath enough to ask, "What's your name?"
But he doesn't ask, so the Canary walks on without another glance.
The college campus is almost completely deserted. Evening falls quickly over the surrounding buildings. A few snowflakes flurry across the Canary's vision, building up on the sidewalk and benches. The snow makes the cool and modern lines of the campus seem softer, quieter. The wind is stagnant and heavy in the way that only New England air can manage, and it feels more like wading through the bitter cold than walking.
Despite the almost empty sidewalks, the Canary can't help but feel on edge. She can't remember, chooses not to remember, the last time she heard so many English words strung together. The sounds are harsh, guttural, and foreign. She feels like an outsider, like someone else is walking around in her skin. She forgot that places like a college campus existed; she forgot that there was ever anything that came before.
She crosses MIT campus and arrives at the Fairchild building in less than fifteen minutes. Her gait is casual, unassuming, and normal.
A man (thirty-three, brown hair, brown eyes, favoring his left leg) holds open the door to the building for her. "Let me get that for you," he says, all gentleman charm and affability.
The Canary hesitates for a second. "Thank you," she says. The words taste funny on her tongue.
The man cradles a stack of papers at least two inches thick in his left arm. His right hand drifts toward his pocket and the Canary stiffens. Her mind races.
Two seconds to neutralize. Kick. Slap. Stab. Snap. Dead.
But the man pulls out a set of keys. He moves toward a door down the hallway to the left, forgetting all about her.
The tension in the Canary's shoulders shifts to her clenched fists as she heads down the opposite hall. She stops halfway and pretends to consult the building directory, catching the man in her peripheries as he drops his keys and swears. As soon as he shuts the door behind him, the Canary moves on. Her destination is on the fourth floor. She takes the stairs.
She arrives at an office with no windows. The placard to the side of the door reads Department of Computer Sciences in crisp black font. There's a potted tree shuffled off sadly in the corner, its fake fabric leaves gathering dust. The awful cream-colored paint on the walls reflects the harsh overhead lighting. It hollows out the cheekbones and eye sockets of the harried looking secretary behind the desk, making her look much older than she actually is.
The nameplate on the desk identifies the secretary as Marilyn Donner. She clearly isn't happy to have a visitor so close to closing time.
"I should warn you, Hon, we're closing in twenty minutes," she says in a distinctive Boston drawl. She taps her fingertips on the counter, revealing nails in an alarming shade of magenta. "So if you need something that'll take longer than that, you'll have to come back after Christmas break."
The Canary takes in the heavy eye makeup, the big hair, and the button resting at the base of the woman's collarbone straining to keep her blouse work appropriate. Marilyn Donner is an easy read.
"It'll only take ten minutes tops, I promise," the Canary says. She leans against the receptionist's desk and pops a hip, her stance casual. "I'm just as anxious to get outta here as you—my man's taking me on a date. But a professor upstairs is kicking a fit 'cause he can't read his emails or something, and he sent me down here to find someone to fix it." She rolls her eyes.
The Canary's pointed complaints butters up the overworked and underpaid secretary.
"I bet it's Dr. Gardener again," Marilyn says. She shakes her head, her large hoop earrings bouncing against her cheeks. "He's having a fit every other day, I swear. You the new girl up in the lab?"
"Just filling in for the last few weeks," the Canary answers. She gives a deep sigh. "Between you and me, I don't think I could take it for much longer. Working up there is a nightmare."
Marilyn nods sympathetically. "You'd think with a doctorate the man would know how to fix his computer, but you know those academic types," she says. "Don't care for anything but their work. The number of times I've had them drop in here and ask me to get them a coffee." She scoffs. "As if they don't have two legs of their own."
"It's a man's world," the Canary says.
"Ain't that the truth, Hon," Marilyn says. She frowns as she adds, "I don't know if I can be of much help. We don't have any IT personnel in this office. They're sourced through student employment on the other side of campus."
The Canary slouches her shoulders in disappointment. "That's what I told Dr. Gardener, but he insisted I come down here anyway."
She shrugs helplessly and then leans in, as if offering up a secret. Marilyn responds in kind and leans forward, anxious for any piece of gossip to break the monotony of the day. "Look, between you and me, it's my last day and I couldn't care less if he gets everything worked out, but he is writing me a letter of recommendation for grad school and its due before the end of break and I need to make a good impression. Can you help me?"
The Canary sees the moment Marilyn gives in. The stiff secretarial air is replaced with relaxed shoulders. Marilyn takes a deep breath and then nods, offering the Canary a sincere smile.
"Sure, Sweetie," she says. "Just give me a sec."
Her magenta nails fly across her keyboard. The Canary waits only two minutes before the laser printer on the left whirs to life.
"These are the names of a couple of our students from the department," Marilyn says. She runs her finger over the list, stopping to highlight two or three names. "They work for the on campus IT department. I don't know how many are still around—Dr. Gardener picked a hell of a day to have computer problems—but their contact information is all here."
Her hand pauses next to the last name on the list and she looks up, hesitantly. "Normally I wouldn't hand out information like this," she hedges, biting her lip.
The Canary makes a show of patting her pockets and slouching in defeat. "I don't have my ID on me. I had an early morning and forgot my wallet. But I can give you my name? You can check it against the database. Or I can run upstairs and bring Dr. Gardener back down with me?"
The clock ticks closer to five o'clock. The Canary watches the secretary's eyes flick to the clock and then back to her.
"No, that's okay," Marilyn says. "Just give me a name, and I'll write it down for our records."
The Canary smiles. "Vicki Vale," she says. "I'm a junior. Writing major."
Marilyn smiles, but she doesn't move to write anything down. "How'd you end up over here in the Fairchild building? We see more computer science majors than writing majors."
"Gotta make myself more marketable somehow. Writing doesn't always pay the bills," the Canary says.
Marilyn hands her the paper. The Canary folds it and puts it inside her jacket pocket. "Well, it looks like my ten minutes are up! I'm going to take this up to Dr. Gardener and scoot out of here before he finds something else for me to do. Thank you so much, Marilyn. You really saved me."
Marilyn waves her off, but there's a proud blush to her cheeks. "No problem. You enjoy that date with your man tonight, alright?"
The Canary nods effusively and leaves the way she came.
Her smile drops as soon as she's out the door.
Marilyn Donner was an easy mark. If this woman is all that stands between the students and their privacy, the students at MIT are more vulnerable than any of them could ever imagine.
I trust you, Marilyn said. The words echo in the Canary's head. I trust you.
Marilyn Donner's trust is worth just about as much as the effort the Canary took to earn it—nothing.
There are eight names on Donner's list of potential tech advisors, and three have been highlighted as the preferred choice for technical assistance. The Canary will fully vet every single one of the eight names on the list, just in case, but she will pay special interest to the names the secretary highlighted. One of these names is bound to still be in town, despite the oncoming winter break. It will take only a few days, three tops, to acquire the accomplice.
And then, the Canary can carry out her mission.
The lithe figure steps out from the Fairchild building into the softly falling snow, fading into the background. In a moment, it's like she was never there.
The Canary moves through three days of recon fairly quickly, hardly stopping to sleep.
Five of the names are quickly knocked off the list because the recent school break means they hundreds of miles away; two of those five are names that were highlighted by Marilyn Donner. A sixth name is removed from the list when the Canary follows that target around and finds out he is married and has a young expectant wife. The Canary is cold and clean, but more than that she is careful, and the disappearance of a young father-to-be is so much harder to cover up than someone who is singularly unattached.
That narrows her list down to two, which very quickly becomes one, given that the last highlighted name on the list is deceased—a Cooper Seldon. Poor bastard.
Finding this information takes an extra half a day, and the setback sets the Canary's teeth on edge. Whoever is in charge of keeping track of records is a good month behind, if the local news bulletins are to be trusted. The Canary inhabits a world where the tiniest bit of information can mean the difference between life or death; having less than everything at her fingertips makes her twitchy. She needs to finish this job and leave as soon as she can.
It feels wrong to be back in America; it feels wrong to be wearing jeans. Everything feels wrong.
Her recon leaves her with one name, and only one choice.
Felicity Meghan Smoak, 20, Graduate Student in Cyber Security and Computer Science.
The Canary ignores resource's name, instead focusing on committing the features of the accompanying school ID to memory. The accomplice is due to graduate in April with her Master's degree, which is quite an achievement for someone who legally still can't drink in the state of Massachusetts. She's a Las Vegas native whose closest relative is her mother, who isn't even listed as her emergency contact. The two are estranged. The target is single and lives alone.
In all, the Canary couldn't have hoped for a more qualified and disposable mark; she can make Felicity Smoak disappear as easily as her last name promises.
Poof, and she's gone.
It takes the Canary a day to track down her accomplice. She isn't what the Canary expected. Her hair is a bold blonde, cropped short to her chin—completely opposite of the long dark hair the girl sports in her school ID. Her lips are a distracting shade of bubblegum pink and a pair of glasses perch on her princess nose. They fall down every so often and she impatiently adjusts them with her left hand, careful not to smudge any fingerprints on the lens.
The Canary shadows her accomplice to campus. The girl talks to herself almost the entire trip. It's strange, but not off-putting, until her quiet commentary turns into a shriek when she slips on a patch of ice. She goes face first into a snow bank. The snow is freshly fallen and plowed, fresh powder that accepts her easily into its icy embrace.
The Canary tenses instinctively in her hiding place. Her target stands up and brushes off know. "All I'm asking for is one morning where everything doesn't go to shit," she says. "Is that too much to ask?"
She continues on and the Canary falls back into step with her. She is as quiet and unobtrusive as the shadow clinging to the girl's ankles.
One morning where everything doesn't go to shit. It is too much to ask, the Canary knows. Mornings, no matter how bright they look, always turn to shit in the end. And this girl, with her blonde hair and brightly painted lips, needs to learn that. Life isn't a pleasure cruise, it isn't easy, and it most certainly is not fair.
. . .
Felicity has had a stalker before. She knows what it feels like to have someone's eyes tracking her constantly. It's a pricking at the back of your head and on your neck and it doesn't go away. But after the roller coaster ride from hell that sums up her last two months, she isn't interested in trouble. So she chalks up that pricking feeling to her recent bought of anxiety—and pushes it away.
What happened with Cooper was a disaster, and she doesn't mean his untimely demise.
They'd been together for eight months. He practically lived in her small apartment with her. Two more months, and Felicity is sure that she would have convinced him to finally ditch his housing contract and make it official. She'd wrapped her life around his and it had been as easy as slipping into her favorite sweater. On Fridays they fought over whether to have Chinese or Thai for take out. Cooper would fall asleep during movie nights and Felicity would curl up next to him. They'd spend all night cuddled on the couch and wake up with cricks in their neck the next morning; it was worth it just to be close to him.
But Cooper was loud, even when he slept. She used to complain that his snoring could wake the dead. And he was infuriating. He'd lived his whole life being the smartest person in any room, which made him an insufferable know-it-all. And in all his life, it had never occurred to him that he'd ever meet anyone smarter. He didn't compromise. It was his way or no way.
And did Felicity mention that sometimes he was such a smug bastard that she felt that it was impossible that they could ever work out?
But Cooper loved impossible. He excelled at all things impossible.
And Felicity Smoak was everything impossible, rolled into one.
Their relationship had lasted eight months, from start to finish. Felicity was already looking at a bigger apartment the two of them could afford together. She had put out feelers and received offers for a few jobs around the city, which would allow Cooper to finish his degree in Computer Science and Technical Engineering. There was a future for them, and somedays—when Cooper wasn't being an ass or Felicity had enough stockpiled patience to brave his tantrums—somedays, Felicity could feel the future at her fingertips.
But then something slipped.
Looking back, Felicity isn't sure when the cracks started. She wonders sometimes, late at night staring at her ceiling. Was when she won that fellowship with Stellmoor International over him? ("Not that I care, you know, I wasn't really serious about it anyway. Congrats, though.) Was it when she applied for graduation a semester before him? ("Well, my chosen program is really rigorous, you know? I mean, Cyber Security isn't Tech Engineering, you know?")
But whatever or whenever it was, the end result was the same. Cooper made a choice, and Felicity reaped the consequences.
He'd taken her research, the research she'd painstakingly pieced together for her Master's thesis. He'd used it to circumvent the firewalls in the Department of Education's system, erasing thousands of people's debts, all with her research. He said he'd done it with noble intentions, that he wanted to make a difference in the lives of thousands, but all Felicity could hear was the blaring sound of his betrayal.
He'd been shameless to the end. He stood, tall and proud, even with his hands cuffed behind his back.
"Felicity," he said. "Sweetie, it wasn't personal. I never wanted to hurt you. God, the last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt you."
But he did. He had hurt her and he had used her. He used her for sex and he used her for her mind. There wasn't an inch of her he didn't touch, didn't soil, didn't put his greedy hands on.
"I never want to see you again," she said.
"Felicity," he said.
Felicity drew her shoulders up, proud and tall. She said, "Go to hell."
And she really meant it.
Three days after his arrest, Cooper Seldon was found dead in his cell. He'd hung himself with a bed sheet.
Those three words—Go to hell—were the first thing on Felicity's mind every morning for the fifty-six days after Cooper died.
So, yeah, when she starts getting that pricking feeling on the back of her neck, she pushes it away. Because its been fifty-six days and eight hours and however odd minutes. She still can't get his smell out of her favorite pillow and those goddamned sheets.
(But, to be honest, she knows the problem isn't with the sheets.)
Day fifty-eight doesn't start until well after noon for Felicity. It was a rough night. She had Cooper's scent in her nose. It was so toxic she could feel it on her tongue, at the back of her throat.
It takes her a long time to negotiate herself out of bed and into the shower. She stands there, under the spray, and lets the water cascade over her back and shoulders until it runs cold. When Felicity finally meets her gaze in the bathroom mirror, it is the first time she doesn't look for Cooper's ghost over her shoulder.
Instead of looking for the ghost of someone who never really existed, Felicity fingers her severe chin-length bob and moves her head to the left and the right. She still can't get used to the length; the asymmetrical cut tickles her left cheek. She looks younger with short hair, and her eyes look wider behind her glasses. There's not so much eyeliner now. Its absence makes her face look softer, more inviting.
"I can do this," she says out loud, and her voice rings around her cramped bathroom. "I am Felicity Smoak, fear me."
It's a dumb little saying but it makes her feel better. Her voice didn't even tremble this time. Someday soon, she might believe it.
Felicity pops her bright pink lips, squares her shoulders, and marches out the door to campus. She has to turn back twice. The first time she forgets her purse and the second time she forgets to lock the door.
It's a good thing it's the holidays, and her last argument with her mom means there's no one expecting her to be on time for anything. It's okay to start her day at noon. It's okay that this is the first time she's left her apartment for two and a half days.
It's okay. She's okay.
Because fifty-eight days ago, Cooper Seldon killed himself. But he will not take Felicity Smoak with him.
Day fifty-eight happens to be Christmas Eve, and while the city of Boston is bustling with last minute gift shopping and all sorts of merriment, MIT campus is deserted and quiet. It takes Felicity almost half an hour to make it to the Fairchild building.
The building is normally crawling with overachieving computer people, eyes bloodshot and hands jittery from too much coffee, but today is the exception. Even the most dedicated junkies have family to spend Christmas Eve with. It's a relief, stepping away from the frantic pace of the rest of the city, like stepping into a church to pray.
Felicity makes herself comfortable in front of her altar of choice, one of the high-powered computers in the Fairchild computer lab. She loses herself to the numbers and sequences on her screen. It's the most peace she's had in weeks.
Her phone stays at the bottom of her purse, but it doesn't matter because no one calls. It's already well past six o'clock when she settles in, and she doesn't look up for hours.
. . .
Ralph is a janitor at the Fairchild building. He's worked the late shift for fifteen years and, due to budget cuts all around, is the only janitor on duty after eleven. He is familiar with the Computer Science students burning the late night oil. Despite the invention of laptops, nearly all of the students in the department use the high-powered computers provided by the school, and Ralph has had to kick out a lot of students who refuse to go home at closing time.
But he has a soft spot for Felicity Smoak, who remembers his wife's name and was smart enough to bribe him with TimTams—his guilty pleasure.
He taps on the door to the computer lab, making Felicity jump. It's just past eleven, and he really should have kicked her out hours ago. "I'm locking up, Felicity," he says.
"Alright," she says. "I'm almost done here."
Ralph raises an eyebrow at her. "I've heard that one before, missy."
Felicity smiles, but there's something broken about it. Ralph can tell.
She's a good girl, Felicity Smoak, and while Ralph never gives much attention to the gossip that gets passed around campus, there is no way he could have missed the news about Cooper Seldon. Felicity didn't deserve what happened, and she didn't deserve to be alone on Christmas Eve.
"I'm Jewish," Felicity reminds him when he says as much. "We don't celebrate Christmas, remember? So it's just another night for me. But I'll get out of your hair in just a minute, I swear."
Ralph shakes his head. "I'm here 'til 1:30 and can't leave before then," he says. "You're welcome to stay, but I wish you wouldn't. Even if you don't celebrate Christmas, you shouldn't be here alone."
"Thanks for looking out for me," she says. "And tell Marian I said, 'Merry Christmas.'"
Ralph moves on with his rounds and Felicity gets back to work. Her thesis is in shambles after the FBI has confiscated most of it to prosecute Cooper and she has a lot of ground to cover if she's going to stay on track for graduation in April.
. . .
Long waits are excruciating for the Canary, but she holds herself in check until the only people in the building are her target and the janitor. And as long as he doesn't get in the way, he won't be collateral damage.
The Canary waits until the janitor finishes his rounds and returns to his office. And then she makes her move.
The late night and the feeling of being watched prey on Felicity's paranoia. Her eyes are tired. She's been staring at a computer screen for too long, and there's a growing pounding in her head that will be a full blown migraine by tomorrow if she doesn't get some rest. But the thought of walking across the city so late at night with this pricking feeling at the back of her neck makes her heart race. And she would call someone, but she's kind of lost contact with a lot of her friends since she and Cooper started dating and—
"Felicity Smoak?"
Felicity yelps and jumps up, her knee connecting with the underside of her desk. Pricking feeling aside, she wasn't expecting someone to sneak up on her in the computer lab.
"Shit," she says. Her heart beats a tattoo against her breast. "Holy shit."
Standing in front of her is a girl with a heart-shaped face, blue eyes, and natural blonde hair. Felicity has only been a blonde for a little longer than a month, but she can spot a real one when she sees it.
Somewhere in between having the hell scared out of her and whipping around to face the intruder, Felicity had grabbed the mouse and held it over her head. What she hoped to do with it, she had no idea, and the blonde raises an eyebrow at her as if she is asking that very question.
"You scared me," Felicity says. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same thing," the girl says. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."
Something about the girl's tone puts Felicity instantly on her guard. That tone of voice makes Felicity think that scaring her is exactly what the girl was trying to do.
Felicity tightens her hold on the mouse. "The building is closed," she says. She makes no effort to be polite.
"That didn't stop you," the girl points out.
Felicity blinks and feels her consternation growing with every passing second. The pricking feeling on the back of her neck has disappeared completely, which means one thing.
"Are you the one who's been following me for the last three days?" she asks. Her voice sounds a lot braver than she feels.
An unreadable expression steals across the girl's face. It's as good as a yes.
"I needed to know if I could trust you," she says. "Again, I'm sorry if I scared you."
At least she doesn't deny it. But her tone is too measured, too comforting. It sets Felicity even more on edge.
"Who are you?" she demands. "What are you doing here?"
The girl puts out her hands, palms forward, in a placating manner.
"My name is—Sara," she says. Felicity watches as a shudder goes through the girl's whole body. "And I need your help."
A late night rendezvous was so not what Felicity had in mind for her night. And given the weird vibes this girl is giving off, Felicity knows she doesn't want to get involved.
She tells her as much. "Look, I don't know who you've been talking to, but I have a pretty good idea why you're here. And the answer is no."
Sara looks surprised. "I haven't even told you what I need."
Felicity rolls her eyes. "You didn't corner me at midnight with no one around so you could ask for a tutor in your programming class," she says.
The girl's lips twitch. "True," she says. "But hear me out. Aren't you the least bit curious about what I have to say?"
And, dammit, but this Sara girl has got her there. Felicity has always been too curious for her own good.
Something about Felicity's expression must betray this, because Sara adds, "If you decide you don't want to help me, I'll walk away."
She should say no. Felicity doesn't need any more complications in her life right now, and Sara has complication stamped all over her pretty face. She should say no.
Instead, Felicity sits down and crosses her legs. She doesn't relax her death grip on the mouse she's been clutching for the duration of this little interlude.
"You have five minutes," Felicity says. "And then I'm calling campus security."
Sara crosses her arms. She doesn't look impressed, but Felicity can see some of that curiosity reflected back in Sara's eyes. Obviously, Felicity isn't what Sara expected.
"I'm in need of information and all my research seems to indicate that you're the person to contact," Sara says.
"I'm not really tuned into campus gossip," Felicity answers carefully. "You might want to consult a couple of sorority houses if that's what you're looking for."
Sara frowns at her, knowing full well that she is being baited. "This isn't the kind of information that a bunch of sorority sisters would have," she says. "It's the kind of information that only a very talented few could get their hands on."
Felicity's foot starts tapping on the ground. "You want a hacker," she says.
Sara's lips twitch. "That's such an ugly word," she says. "I'm more in need of someone who can open the right doors for me."
"You want a criminal," Felicity says. "I'm not interested."
She reaches for her bag. Sara's hand snags Felicity's, quick as a snake strike. Felicity snaps her gaze up to Sara's. Surprised blue eyes meets frigid blue ones.
"What I need is someone who believes, just like I do, that there are men in this world who need to be punished for the crimes they commit against society," Sara says. "And I still have three minutes left."
For the first time during their conversation, Felicity gets the feeling that there's something dangerous about this Sara girl. Felicity eyes her in trepidation, but gives a sharp nod to invite her to go on.
Sara takes a deep breath and makes the pitch of a lifetime.
"Two weeks ago, a woman was found dead in the alley behind the Wilbur Theater. The responding unit catalogued nine stab wounds, four broken ribs, head trauma, and a dislocated shoulder. Whoever killed her took her from behind, dislocated her shoulder, smashed her head against the wall, kicked her, stabbed her, and left her to bleed out." Sara's voice is low and emotionless. Felicity's heart starts beating faster and she's not sure what's worse, Sara's voice or Sara's story.
Sara continues in that toneless voice. Her eyes refuse to release Felicity's. "The police have passed it off as a mugging gone wrong, but I don't agree. Judging by the look on your face, neither do you."
Felicity shakes her head. They're well over the five minute time limit now, but she doesn't tell Sara to stop.
"The man who orchestrated this is very powerful and very dangerous," Sara says. "He's created a web of crime in the city that stretches across most of the East Coast. But in order to get closer to the head, I need to go through his contact here in Boston."
"This is sounding more and more crazy by the second," Felicity says. "I mean, like Illuminati, live in your parent's basement, tinfoil-hat crazy."
Sara's lips twitch, like she's holding back a smile. But then her eyes become very serious. "Do you want me to leave?" she asks "It's been longer than five minutes."
Sara's not sure why she's giving Felicity a choice. When did she become more than an accomplice, a resource to be acquired? Any other person would tell Sara to leave. The League has left their stench on her. Surely, a smart girl like Felicity can sense that. It's what any normal person would do.
But Felicity Smoak has never been good at normal. While other seven-year-olds were out learning to ride bikes or playing with dolls, Felicity had been building her first computer out of bits of pieces she scrounged from the pawn shop around the corner. That same curiosity, the one that later drove her to take apart the toaster when she was nine, is tickled. Sara, whoever she is, has just provided the best mystery Felicity has seen in years.
And she's always loved a good mystery.
"Tell me more," Felicity says, and her voice is a tad too interested when she adds, "And make it good."
The tale that Sara has to tell has more in common with a TV soap than Felicity is comfortable with. Drugs, muggings, carjackings, and other things that Felicity doesn't even want to begin thinking about. But it's like when she catches the beginning of one of those late night cop shows. She can't walk away and she can't change the channel.
When Sara finishes her story, Felicity is lost for words. It's a good thirty seconds before she can get anything past her lips, which must be a personal record.
"You mean to tell me that not only is Mayor Brunswick turning a blind eye to the rising crime rates in the city—the same Mayor Brunswick who, I might add, opened the new pediatric transplant center at the Boston Children's Hospital just last week—he's also hopped into bed with the Russian mob and gotten involved in human trafficking?" Felicity flinches, realizing her poor choice of words, but Sara doesn't.
"Yes," she says.
"That's impossible," Felicity says. "Someone would have noticed by now."
"Brunswick has most of the police in his back pocke," Sara says. "No one is willing to stand up to him because they're afraid that they will end up like that woman—beaten and left for dead."
"And you aren't?" Felicity demands. "What you're telling me sounds like the plot to an episode of Law & Order. Do you know what happens to the people who go poking around on that show? They get killed in many varied and awful ways, kind of like what you just described."
"He can't get away with it," Sara says. She clenches her fists at her side and the emotion comes roaring back to her voice. "And I fully intend to see that he doesn't, but in order to do that I need your help."
Felicity starts shaking her head before Sara finishes her sentence. "Look, I get what you're saying, I really do, and hearing about what happened to that woman . . . It's awful. Just awful. But I don't want to end up like her and I don't think you do either."
"I can take care of myself," Sara says. "And I'm more than capable of taking care of her killer."
Felicity has her doubts about the girl in front of her, but this is not one of them. She is a coiled snake, ready to strike, but righteous anger won't stop Sara from getting killed. She is average height and slender. Her frame is muscular, but she looks more like a cheerleader, date your boyfriend behind your back kind of girl. Physically, she isn't imposing enough to inspire fear. Felicity is familiar with the first type of dangerous. She went to school with a lot of those. But something about Sara's eyes is worthy of pause.
Felicity can't read people's emotions in their eyes; she's better at reading code on a computer screen. She's never understood what novels mean when they see the truth shining out of someone's eyes or a shadow passing through them. Eyes are eyes, a system of optical nerves and cones and rods. But for the first time, as she takes in Sara's frigid blue eyes, she realizes that there is something off about them, something that makes Felicity shift uncomfortably.
"You wouldn't need to get involved," Sara continues. "If you're as good as they say you are, no one will need to know where I got my information."
"Who are they?" Felicity says.
Sara gives a half-hearted smile. "I never reveal my sources," she says.
Felicity groans. "Tell me you're not another journalism student chasing a lead," she says. "Sources and background deals and deep throats—"
"I'm not a journalism student," Sara says. "So, will you help me?"
Felicity knows she should say no. The last thing she needs after the Seldon debacle, and the FBI requisitioning her research, is another reason for the NSA to be watching her every step. She should say no. Life would be so much easier if she would just say no.
The word is there—no, no, no—right on the tip of her tongue, and then—
"Tell me what you're looking for," Felicity says. "And I'll see what I can do."
. . .
The Canary isn't sure when she lost control of the conversation, but she's sure it happened somewhere between entering the room and, "My name is Sara."
She hasn't been Sara, even in her own mind, for so long. It has been the Canary, Ta-er al-Sahfer, the assassin with the banshee call. Sara was a girl with so much potential energy she self-destructed; Sara found her end somewhere between Starling City and China, the Canary is all that remains. Her wings are clipped and drenched in blood.
Felicity Smoak was supposed to be a means to an end. She is a source, to be used and to be disposed—poof, and she's gone. Instead, she is now in possession of the most valuable thing the Canary has ever had, something she has given no one else since washing up on a beach and waking with a sword to her throat.
Her name.
Sara.
When Felicity's program finally traces the money through the last of the shell companies (nine in total, and two false leads—someone's feeling a little paranoid), everything stops. It's as if the air has gone out of the room.
The computer gives a satisfying pingand the search program pulls up everything from bank account statements to parking tickets to tax returns. But that's not what steals Felicity's breath.
No. There's a picture on the screen and Felicity would be sick right there on her keyboard, only she can't heave because she can't breathe. The same thought runs through her head, over and over again—oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—and there's a dull ringing in her ears.
Someone is talking to her. Felicity can't hear them or understand what they're saying. Her heart is pounding, louder than anything else, because, oh my god, this can't be real.
"Fe-lic-ity, breathe!"
Felicity gasps. Something crackles in her chest as air rushes back into her lungs. Spots dance in front of her eyes.
"Deep breaths, in and out. Breathe with me. In and out, in and out. You're okay."
It takes Felicity a moment to come back to herself. When she does, she finds Sara's hands on her arm, rising and falling with Felicity's exaggerated breaths. Sometime during her panic attack, Felicity's hand had fisted in Sara's shirt, gripping so tight that her knuckles have turned white. She releases the shirt quickly, as if she has been burned.
"Sorry," Felicity says. Her lips are almost too numb to get the words out.
"Don't apologize," Sara says. "Are you alright?"
Felicity nods, but words continue to fail her. Sara watches her intently, withdrawing her hand from Felicity's back.
"Felicity," Sara says. "What is it?"
Felicity turns back to her computer. She feels like she's been betrayed by her beloved technology. When she faces the screen, the picture is still there, mocking her. And she can't bring herself to look away.
"I'm going to ask you a question, and you're going to be honest with me," Felicity says. All traces of humor are gone from her voice and she clenches her fists, aqua nails biting into her palm.
Sara straightens, reaching for the knife tucked into the waistband of her jeans.
Felicity doesn't look away from the computer screen as she asks, "What do you want with my father?"
Whatever Sara was expecting, it wasn't that. She feels like the Demon's Heir has landed a flying kick to her gut. The universe is a sick, sick place with an even sicker sense of humor. The blood pounds in Sara's head, pooling in her cheeks and neck. She hasn't felt this off balance since stumbling up a rocky cliff to look into the eyes of a demon and pledge her soul.
Felicity's father. Dammit. What are the chances that of all the men in all the world, this man was her father?
Felicity doesn't look away from her computer. She is all sharp angles and crisp lines, a far cry from the gentle curves she had been a moment before; she is transformed, the jagged edge of a piece of broken glass.
The silence stretches on between them. Sara says nothing. And, strangely, neither does Felicity.
Finally, Sara says, "I didn't know Mayor Brunswick was your father."
Felicity's forehead crinkles and she turns around to face Sara. She is confused. "He's not," she says.
Sara blinks at her. Now it's her turn to be confused. "Then why—?"
Her eyes consult the screen, taking in the image that has spooked Felicity. There's a definite resemblance between the man and Felicity, mostly around the eyes, but the man is not her target. He is pictured shaking hands with her target, but something about the body language between the mystery man (Felicity's father?) and Brunswick is off. Sara traces the posture of Brunswick, how his shoulders slope and his head dips. He looks almost submissive, as if . . .
The final puzzle piece clicks into place. Sara's eyes widen. Her heart pounds. Her fists clench, ready for a fight. Everything about this mission has just become much more complicated and much more dangerous.
Felicity Smoak is good at what she does—damn good. She's managed to uncover in less than an hour what some of the best in the League have not been able to uncover in years of reconnaissance. This man is powerful, far more powerful than Brunswick if Brunswick's tail between the legs behavior is anything to go off. Felicity has hacked her way into this sprawling web of crime that an hour ago she didn't know even existed.
"Felicity Smoak," Sara says, and in her voice is a note of awe. "You are remarkable."
Felicity doesn't thank her. "Who are you really?" she asks. "What do you want with me?"
It is the first time since Sara's appearance that Felicity has looked afraid. It feels like another flying kick to the chest when Sara realizes that she is the reason for the tears gathering at the corners of Felicity's eyes.
"You don't have to be afraid of me," Sara says. "I'm not going to hurt you."
The knife in her waistband says differently. Sara is a liar, always has been, even before her little pleasure cruise from hell.
No, Laurel, I didn't borrow that shirt.
Yeah, Mom, I'll be home before twelve.
Daddy, please, it wasn't mine. I swear.
It will be okay, Ollie. I promise.
But when Sara tells Felicity she isn't going to hurt her, it's the first full truth she's told in a long time. Despite the truth, however, the problem remains. Felicity knows too much. She is too smart, too resourceful, and too dangerous to leave alive. If the man on the screen is the girl's father, and if he is connected to the mysterious orchestrator the Demon has been hunting for all these years, this unassuming MIT graduate is about to become League enemy number one.
The Canary, bound by her vow, can't let her live. In the course of saving many, a few must fall.
But Sara can't let her die.
"It's not you or your father I'm interested in," Sara says. "The man I'm after is Mayor Brunswick. But you're a lot more thorough than I expected."
Felicity gives a strangled laugh and looks a little less terrified at Sara's words. "That's me," she says. "Thorough to the end."
It sounds weirdly suggestive in the way that only Felicity can manage. This time, Sara's grin wins the fight against her stoicism.
"You look nice when you smile," Felicity adds. "You should do that more often."
Sara blinks, and the smile slips away.
Felicity winces. "I talk when I'm nervous," she says. "I'm sorry. I'll stop talking. Right now."
"It's alright," Sara says. "But I meant what I said. I'm not going to hurt you."
Sara realizes by making that promise she has not only betrayed her disguise as a non-threatening college student, but she has also betrayed the League. And while the Canary is furious, Sara is settled. If Felicity Smoak is the reason for that peace, Sara has to let her live. She has earned that much.
In the course of saving many, a few must fall. But not Felicity Smoak.
The clock tower outside tolls the half-hour. It is half-past one in the morning. Down the hall, the elevator dings. Sara and the Canary tense—Sara with dread, the Canary in anticipation. Someone is coming.
"Shit," Felicity says. She whips back to the computer and with a few keystrokes, the evidence of her hacking is minimized and encased on a flash drive no bigger than her pinky.
She clenches it in her hand and stares at Sara. The footsteps down the hall get steadily closer.
"That woman who was found dead in the alley," Felicity says. "I remember seeing the story in the paper. It was Brunswick's wife, wasn't it?"
Sara nods.
"And this other man, the conductor, or whatever you called him—he did that?" Felicity asks.
"The orchestrator, and yes, he arranged it," Sara says. "Because Alicia Brunswick went to the police with evidence that would incriminate the entire operation."
Felicity takes a shuddering breath.
"And you believe that you can do something?" she asks. "Even with the mysterious man behind the curtain pulling the strings."
Sara nods again.
Felicity pinches her eyes shut and takes another breath. Outside, she can hear Ralph's slow shuffle making his way toward the computer lab. She has never been more grateful for the old war injury that slows his steps.
"Do you know what my father has to do with all of this?" Felicity asks.
There's a small beat of silence.
"No," Sara says, and Felicity believes her.
Felicity squares her shoulders. She takes a deep breath—in and out, just like Sara said.
"If I give you this, I'm breaking the law," she says.
Sara doesn't say anything.
"I could get in a lot of trouble. Like, a decade or two in prison."
Still, nothing.
"And I don't look good in orange."
It's that last smile, the corner of Sara's mouth pulling up against her will, that finally convinces Felicity. Whatever Sara pretends to be, there's something very human, very broken, about the way she smiles. It's a familiar smile, the same one Felicity has been seeing in the mirror for the last few weeks.
"You have to promise me something," Felicity says. "You have to promise me you'll help me find out how my father is connected to all of this. I helped you, and now you're going to help me."
Sara makes no answer, but Felicity apparently isn't looking for a confirmation. Her tone is steady, but her fingers tremble. She holds out the flash drive, eyes flashing behind her glasses.
Sara watches her. She reaches out and takes the flash drive, their fingers brushing. Felicity's fingers are warm.
Behind her, the door opens. When Felicity blinks, Sara is gone. In her place is Ralph, who leans against the doorframe.
"Felicity," Ralph says. "Is everything all right?."
Felicity looks at him, but doesn't see him. She sees her father, years older, but still recognizable as the man who showed her how to fix a bike. She sees a woman, bleeding out in a dark alley, with no help in sight. She sees Sara and her broken smile.
The bile in her stomach is dangerously close to Felicity's throat. She feels like she's drowning.
"I thought I heard voices," Ralph adds. His kindly features are drawn down into a frown.
Breathe, Felicity. In and out. You're okay.
"I was on the phone," Felicity says. She takes a deep breath and brings her outstretched hand back to her side. "Everything's fine."
. . .
When the lithe figure of an assassin slips from MIT campus into the snowy night, the Canary is nowhere to be seen. In her place walks a girl, hand clenched around a flash drive, embers stirring in her chest.
Perhaps the League had been wrong in naming her Ta-er al-Sahfer, the Canary. Because in a single night, Felicity Smoak has managed to stoke the dying flames, resurrecting the girl who drowned somewhere in the ocean between Starling City and China.
She is al-Ankaa, the Phoenix. Born from the flames.
She is Sara Lance. Revived, alone, and so very far from home.
(She doesn't know if she can forgive Felicity Smoak for resurrecting that.)
You know what's frustrating? Lying in bed at one in the morning and not being able to sleep because a story idea is gnawing at your brain and won't let you sleep until you hammer out an outline.
You know what compounds that frustration? Hammering out an outline and realizing that, crap, this is not going to be a one-shot kind of thing like I thought it would be.
But do you know what takes the cake? Sitting on the story so long that you've rewritten it at least a dozen times. So many times, in fact, that the file that contains all the writing you scrapped throughout these revisions is now longer than the actual story.
So here I am finally getting around to posting this sucker. Feedback would comfort my poor frustrated little soul.
(Posted originally on AO3.)