Chapter: 3 - Exploratory Server Surgery
Word Count: 3237

Notes: First of all, I'd like to blame a list of euphemisms for the title—it's not my creativity there. :) A lot of research went into this chapter, actually, and I'm pretty sure I now know more about shiba inus than I even thought possible. :P

I've decided to alternate meetings between the Vigilante and Oliver, so this is another Vigilante chapter—and this one was much more fun to write in my opinion. But I'll let you be the judge. If you want to let me know what you think, reviews are always appreciated. :) But, hey, thanks for reading-no matter what you decide.

Also, there's a lot of vague references in this one. Virtual hugs and/or cookies to anyone who figures them out! :)

Just as a side note, after tonight, I probably won't respond to your reviews until Monday. I've got some crazy things going on this weekend, but don't give up on me! :)


Felicity huffs as she turns her frustration on both the uncooperative motherboard and the blonde girl on screen who has yet to realize that the angel statues are after her. (She reminds herself to stop watching this episode, since it always makes her mad.) She wants to scream, but she knows that's just foolish. The next time she sees Oliver Queen, she's going to strangle him, because his computer is just as frustrating as he is. She frowns down at the computer, then realizes she has her hand on one of the components. Thank God it's not live yet, or she'd be getting a nice static charge through her hair right about now. She shifts her hand away to find the part she needs, then starts tinkering with it.

She jumps about a foot in the air, stifling a scream, when she hears her dog barking in her bedroom, at just about the same time as the angel almost attacks a guy on her television set. She reminds herself never to watch the episode at night, but then her dog barks again. Saphira is generally very quiet, so if she's barking, it means that there's an intruder—or something very out of place. She shoves the half-assembled computer onto her coffee table, pauses the show, and picks up the baseball bat she keeps for such an occasion from beside her TV.

She carefully walks into her bedroom, and she does let out a half-muted scream this time as she sees the figure in the window adjoining to the fire escape, but she drops the bat immediately. Saphira, fierce as her namesake, angles herself between Felicity and the intruder, barking in a manner that is pretty intimidating. Her tail is curled over her back tightly, and her mouth is pulled taut as she exposes her teeth to the intruder. Saphira isn't playing around this time, and he's very right to be crouched in the small space, away from the dog.

Felicity puts a hand on the shiba inu's back, and tries to grab her by the collar. Saphira instead forces herself between Felicity and the intruder, and Felicity sighs for not the first time at the dog's tenacious nature. Sure, that's why she wanted her, but the dog can be more stubborn than Felicity herself on occasion, and it's just demeaning to lose an argument to a dog.

"Very protective," the Vigilante observes, his voice modulated by a synthesizer once again. He seems to be more focused on the twenty-pound dog than on Felicity at this point—and for good reason. Saphira is a sweet dog when she wants to be, but she's also fiercely loyal to Felicity. Not to mention, she has the power and stamina of a dog twice her size, so he's right to be wary of her.

"Saphira, that's enough," she commands sharply, and the dog whines, sitting between them still. She looks at the Vigilante. "She's supposed to be protective—that's why I bought her. I've already had one break-in, and I'd like to deter any future thieves. She may be small, but she's pretty scary when she wants to be."

He tilts his head to the side. "You shouldn't be in an apartment so close to the Glades," he says, tone equal parts concern and chiding. "That last break-in should have been a warning to move." His expression is unreadable, but Felicity is tired of overprotective guys hanging over her life. First Oliver Queen, now a psychopathic vigilante. Vaguely, she wonders what she did to invoke such wrath from the higher powers that be.

She crosses her arms defensively, not sure she likes this level of demanding protectiveness he's giving her. "That's rich," she snaps, "a Vigilante giving me life advice. I like my apartment, and I'm not going to let some doped-up teenagers scare me away. Now, why are you here?" Then she realizes she has a more important question: "How do you even know where I live?"

Of course he ignores her question, just as she expects him to. "I need your help," he says simply, but offers no other explanation or apology for scaring the crap out of her. With the dog calmed, he steps into the room slowly. Saphira growls, but she allows him entry anyway.

The idea of him in her bedroom is starting to give her the creeps, so she motions toward the doorway. "Come into the living room, and we'll talk," she says finally, knowing that she'll probably never understand this guy.

He follows her into the room, head swiveling around as he takes it all in, but he uses an extra amount of time to study the TV, paused on a scene of angel statues around a blue phone box. Felicity suddenly burns with embarrassment at being caught watching such a nerdy show, but the Vigilante mercifully doesn't ask. Felicity takes her seat on the sofa again, the dismantled laptop reminding her of what she should be doing—instead of allowing a hooded vigilante to wander around her home at will. He reaches to run a hand over it, but she slaps his hand away before he can mess up two hours of work. "Don't touch that," she snaps. "It's a project for a client and has nothing to do with you." She sighs before putting a hand to her forehead, willing her headache to stop. "Could you sit down or something? You're making me nervous."

He obliges instantly, sitting down at the opposite end of the sofa. The room is lit only by a lamp focused on the laptop for Oliver Queen, but he leans forward anyway to let the hood shade his face as much as possible. She likes his jawline, she decides, then shakes her head to clear it. Those thoughts will not do.

Before she can speak, Saphira jumps up on the cushion between them, her head tilted toward the Vigilante. He takes the defiance pretty well for a known killer, absently reaching out with an open hand toward her. "I'm looking into the Peter Declan case," he says finally as Saphira sniffs his gloved fingers warily.

"Peter Declan?" Felicity repeats. She knows the name well; she's heard it on all the news stations. The man was sentenced for killing his wife, and he's going to be executed in two days' time. "I would have thought that case was closed by now."

Carefully, he reaches out to pet the dog between them, and Saphira allows the interaction as his fingers rub along her black and white coat, with just that kiss of red separating the two shades. "Declan's wife was going to blow the whistle on Jason Brodeur," he answers. "Jason Brodeur is on the list, and I want to know if he had a man's wife killed."

Felicity huffs, seeing that even her dog has turned traitor against her, cozying up to the man in green leather now. "I can't help you with that," she informs him. "You need a lawyer. This one sounds like it has Laurel Lance written all over it." When he doesn't immediately respond, she continues, "You know, Laurel Lance? She's a hotshot lawyer that takes cases like this—you know, defends those who can't afford high-priced attorneys. She dated Oliver Queen before the whole 'castaway' thing. Bad taste in men aside, she seems like a really awesome lawyer. She seems like the type that would do anything to save the life of an innocent man."

He doesn't answer any of that, but instead says, "Before I can take it to any attorney"—the words roll out of his mouth like he's thinking about enlisting Laurel's help—"I need to know if there were any other leads the police might have had." His hand is absently running over the twenty-pound shiba now situated in his lap, and Saphira is eating up the attention. It's surprising how quickly he earned her trust, but, then again, she's always been told that dogs always fall in line for stronger personalities. She has no doubt the Vigilante is a strong personality

"Oh," Felicity says quietly, not sure what to say next. But then the realization hits her like a battering ram and she gasps, "Oh! You want me to break into the SCPD server? Because, you know, I almost got arrested after your last interference in my life, and I can't go to jail. I'm not mean enough to last a day in there, and—"

The Arrow cuts her short. "Detective Lance will not bother you any longer," he assures her with an air of finality in his tone. A shiver of dread worms its way down her spine.

Felicity gasps. "Please don't tell me you killed him," she begs. "I mean, he was annoying, but it was only because he's a good cop trying to find someone he believes to be a bad guy. He doesn't deserve to die—"

He cuts her off again. "No," he says sharply. "I didn't kill him." Felicity releases a breath she didn't know she was holding. "I simply warned him that there would be consequences if he pursued you again."

An errant thought makes its way out of her mouth: "How did you even know he was going after me?" She's starting to feel a little creeped out by how much he seems to know about her life, and she vaguely wonders if she has a stalker now. She did that once, and she's not interested in another.

He doesn't answer her, and she thinks that if he dodges bullets with the same grace he dodges questions, it's little wonder why no one has killed him. "Will you help me? A man's life is on the line, Felicity." He isn't really begging, but Felicity has a feeling that this is perhaps as close as he'll ever get to pleading with her.

She sighs in defeat as she lifts her laptop from beside Oliver's mostly-dismantled one next to it. Her fingers fly over the keyboard for a moment, but she's finally able to tell him, "Wow, they had blood, fingerprints, motive—pretty much everything they needed to convict him. Slam dunk for the District Attorney's office." She scans the file for a moment before adding, "The statement from Declan says that his wife went to blow the whistle on something to her supervisor, but he says it didn't happen." She moves off to another file to answer the question she already knows to anticipate. "It looks like the supervisor's name is... Matt Isthook."

"Can you print that information for me?" he asks now, again offering no further explanation. He seems to be good at doing that, and it doesn't irritate her as much now as it did the first time.

This time, though, he doesn't have to because Felicity already understands. "You're going to take this to Laurel," she states, fully aware it's going to be his action. She doesn't wait for his confirmation before pressing the print button. She frowns as she realizes she'll have to buy a new printer now; anyone can trace a print-off to a printer nowadays. "You owe me a printer," she mutters, softly enough she thinks he won't hear it.

He steps over to her printer and waits for it to discharge all the information. "I'll see that you get a new one," he promises with the same authority that he used when he told her that Lance wouldn't bother her anymore. She stares at the back of him a little too long, ogling his... better features. Her face heats when he catches her, and she turns away instantly.

When she turns back to him, she sees that he's already starting to turn toward her bedroom to leave. "Wait," she calls, and he turns to her immediately. "I'm glad to help you and all—don't get me wrong—but I want you to promise me you won't use my information to kill anyone. Helping you protect this city is one thing, but being an accomplice to murder is another thing entirely." She crosses her arms for emphasis.

He doesn't have to answer—and she doesn't really expect him to—but he takes several steps toward her, close enough for her to see the black mask across his eyes, before he says, "I promise." There's a sincerity to his tone that she doesn't dare doubt, and she doesn't think she wants to do so.

Before she can acknowledge his statement, he's out of the apartment, leaving her to ponder her thoughts.


Laurel Lance turns the key to her apartment, frowning when she realizes how dark it is in the room. She knows she's paid her bill, so she doesn't quite expect it. She takes a few more steps into the room, that sixth sense of danger creeping up her spine. She pulls the gun she has in the drawer of her cabinet in the doorway, which she keeps for just such emergencies.

Her previous surprise is nothing compared to how she feels when she sees the hooded figure standing in front of the window in the space she uses as an office. She knows the stories, both what she's heard on the news and what she's heard from her dad. She doesn't hesitate a second as she raises the gun. The man is a killer, and while she doesn't know what he wants with her, she's also not the kind of girl who takes chances. Well, at least not since she dated Oliver Queen.

If he's daunted by the gun between them, he doesn't show it. "Hello, Laurel," he says quietly, as though they're old buddies and he's just stopping by to chat. The tone is distorted by some sort of electronic device, and computers have never really been her thing.

She shakes the gun between them for emphasis. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't shoot you," she demands, taking better aim. The last thing she wants is for this creep to get the jump on her, and she's not going to give him the benefit of the doubt.

He holds up the bow between them in a nonthreatening way, his other hand far away from the quiver strapped to his back. "I'm not going to hurt you," he says, his voice soft and low, so surprisingly gentle for a man known in his own city as a killer. Before she can retort that she knows that because she's the one with a gun, he continues, "I could use your help."

He steps toward her, and she doesn't hesitate to fire, but the only thing leaving the gun is the soft click click click of an empty chamber. She's confused for a moment because she knows she leaves the gun loaded, but then he holds up a clip of bullets. She wonders how he knew where she kept the gun, but then she figures even a criminal can get lucky every now and again. "If you're going to shoot me," he says, "you might need these. I'll give them back to you once we're done. I promise."

She means to tell him that she doesn't believe him, but it comes out as, "What do you want?" Her voice is tired, strained with the irritation she's gained since playing games with this cretin.

She thinks she can see a hint of a satisfactory smile trace those lips. "What do you know about the Peter Declan case?" he counters fluidly. She doesn't like the way he answers her question with his own, but she's trying to mask the frustration brewing behind her expression. The last thing she needs is to fly at him in a rage and get herself killed—and she's sure he's just as good in a fistfight as he is with arrows.

She thinks a moment before saying, "Declan is set to be executed in twenty-four hours. The man killed his wife." She has no sympathy for criminals, and she wants to tell the Vigilante that, but she's too afraid to say anything against him now that she's defenseless.

"Peter Declan is innocent," he proclaims. "The real mastermind behind this crime is Jason Brodeur. Declan's wife was going to blow the whistle on something within Brodeur's chemical company, and he had her silenced." He throws something that looks like a case file across her desk, along with what looks like a signed confession. "Matt Isthook, her direct supervisor, admits that in his letter. This should be all you need to send Peter Declan home to his daughter."

Laurel examines the files for a moment before she focuses on him again to ask, "Why me?" When he doesn't immediately answer, she tries again. "There has to be a thousand lawyers in this town. What made you choose me out of all of them?"

His answer is slow and hesitant. "Because you come highly recommended," he answers finally. "And I know that you're the kind of person who would stop at nothing to save the life of an innocent man."

It scares her how well he already knows her, how his words strike home. She wonders vaguely if she's ever met him before when he's not all hooded up and murderous, but then she realizes that she wouldn't meet anyone so obviously deranged on the street. She then ponders who referred him to her, and then thinks she should probably stop allowing her clients to loan out her name and card like that.

She sighs after a long moment, knowing she's going to play into his hand, something that she doesn't like at all. "Fine," she snaps, trying to sound disgruntled to work up the feeling. "I'll see what I can do for Declan, but I'm not going to promise anything." She thinks for a moment before asking, "How do I contact you?"

He offers her a black smartphone, which he also slides onto the desk, along with the clip of bullets. "Call me when you have information for me," he says quickly, and then he's through the window again and gone before she can take any more shots at him, leaving Laurel to ponder her thoughts in the dark. And then the light comes on.

So she does what she does best: sits at her desk and analyzes the information she was given. She decides she'll pour over the books for a few hours, and then she promises she'll do her best to save Peter Declan. After all, someone out there is counting on her to do her best job—someone who knew enough to send the Vigilante to her over this.

Whoever it is, she doesn't quite know, but she won't fail them.