Chapter: Four - Encryption Breaker
Word Count: 1463
Notes: As promised, here's chapter four! There should also be another Little Talks coming this time, but I wanted to give you this! Sorry it's late, but I had to finish some other things first. As always, reviews make me happy, but thanks for reading anyway!
The fourth time she visits him, she tempts him with a promise.
It's about two weeks after she came to him last—and that nasty Christmas hostage situation. The news indicates that it maybe didn't end well for her, but she was up and about a few days later, saving the guy at the firefighters' charity ball from being burned alive. He's rather glad that didn't happen; being burned alive rates right above being arrowed on his worst-ways-to-die list.
It's quiet tonight around the office, just past eight on a Wednesday night, when he hears the soft thump of someone swinging into the room behind him. He probably still wouldn't have heard it if he hadn't been listening for it, but he does, and he speaks before she can. "Glad to know you're okay, after that altercation your friend came to me about. And I heard the Christmas hostage thing didn't end well." He turns around, and he's not surprised to see her standing there. "And I thought my days of being your personal computer geek were coming to an end."
She inclines her head, her lips turning upward ever so slightly. "Is that your way of saying you missed me?" she says, her tone almost teasing. If Oliver didn't know better, he'd almost call it flirting, but no way would the city's own personal guardian angel be flirting with him, of all people.
"No," he corrects instantly, but then he realizes he doth protest too much, so he adds, "but if it works for you, go with it."
She actually chuckles at that before launching into her latest bogus story. "So, a friend of mine is doing a scavenger hunt, and there's a case of Rothschild 1982 waiting at the end," she tells him, holding up something that looks like a security fob.
He reaches for it, only feeling the slightest bit paranoid as he admits, "Don't blame you for going after it; red wine's my favorite." He knows that is a really fine vintage, and that it costs a ludicrous amount of money, but he doesn't go there since she probably didn't mean to tell him she has a rich friend.
She smiles wider, and he can almost sense victory in those shaded eyes, but she pulls away the drive before he can reach it. She quickly continues, as if he hasn't spoken, "But in order to find it, I first need to get through this." This time, she extends the drive for him to take, and he plucks it out of a gloved hand.
He examines it closely, popping the cap off before he dares insert it into one of his precious computers. "Security fob," he confirms, now lost in the drive and forgetting the Vigilante for a moment. He plugs the drive in, and the encrypted screen has a logo for Blackhawk Security, which throws him for a minute. "It's PIN protected, and the challenge code is from... Blackhawk Squad Protection Group." Even though he knew the story was bogus from the beginning, this is the first evidence he receives of it.
He's surprised how quickly she answers, "Yeah, my friend knows a guy that works for them, and he's the one who set it up." She must have rehearsed this one. He's surprised that her voice comes from over his shoulder, and when he turns back to give her an I-know-this-is-complete-bullcrap look, his face is only inches from hers. She shrugs, oblivious to their closeness, as she adds, "Personally, I think it's cheating, but whatever."
Oliver rolls his eyes, chuckling. "This coming from a girl who brings all her tech stuff down to me," he comments dryly. "I believe there's some saying about a pot and a kettle that applies here." She chuckles again as he brings up the code window and studies it before adding, mildly impressed, "This is a military-grade, cryptographic security protocol. Your friend really pulled out the stops."
She shrugs again, smiling slightly as she replies, "He's loaded, and the idle rich are hard to entertain." She turns his chair slightly so that he's facing her, and she says, very seriously, "Listen, if you can crack it, one of those bottles is yours." He doesn't know where she's going to find a bottle of Rothschild 1982, but she seems to be the kind to keep her promises. The tone changes abruptly when she moves back to her chair and asks, "How long will it take?"
He thinks about it a minute. "Well, most people would ask for twenty-four hours, but I'm not most people," he says, and he can't stop himself from bragging. "Give me eight hours?"
She nods, sinking into that chair in his cubicle. "I'll wait," she says, and he has to admit, the girl has some sort of patience level to even think about doing that.
The rest of the night is quiet, and, after an hour or so, he forgets she's there. She waits graciously, never really making a noise, barely even moving. She's like a statue in her seat, so it's easy to forget she's there. When he finally breaks through the security protocols five hours later—thirty minutes faster than his personal best—he's actually surprised to see her still there.
"I think your friend gave me the wrong security fob," he says, a teasing tone in his voice. It borders on flirting, but he prefers not to think of it as that because he'd never be stupid enough to flirt with the Vigilante, of all people.
She smiles that almost-smile as she rises to her feet, stretching slightly. "And why is that?" she responds instantly before moving to look over his shoulder at the results.
"Once I got past Blackhawk's authentication system," he replies, "there wasn't anything about a scavenger hunt." His tone turns serious as he continues, "Just a directory of... well, you've stumbled onto something pretty illegal, surprise surprise."
"Define illegal?" she asks quickly, clearly not understanding what he's got on-screen. There's an edge to her tone that he's not familiar with, and he's reminded that what she does isn't exactly legal, either.
"Oh, you know, robbing an armored car with grenade launchers and tear gas," he says, not as lightly has he had intended. "Someone at Blackhawk was using the fob to store detailed routes and schedules for each of the city's major armored car carriers, including the three that have been hit this week." He turns to her. "I know you're the Vigilante and all, but I think we should probably turn this information into the police. They should be able to predict the next heist with this." He doesn't reach for the phone this time, just turns to look at her expression.
Her mouth turns down instantly. "I don't think I have that luxury," she says, and she seems less-than-pleased about the way events have turned. "I have only a few friends that I trust, Oliver. One of them, he went... undercover at Blackhawk, and I don't want him caught up in this." There's something about the way she says 'undercover' that is equal parts disapproving and irritation, and Oliver doesn't understand why.
He sighs. "Well, that's the best news," he informs her. "The worst news is that there's a prime target tonight for the formation they're using—empty street in the Glades." He rattles off the address. "The truck should be reaching that point in about thirty minutes."
"I'm sorry, but I have to go," she tells him abruptly, reaching over his shoulder to pull the security fob from his computer. She lays a hand on his shoulder. "We'll be in touch," she assures him. "Thank you again, Oliver." She pats his shoulder twice before moving toward the window. "Go home and get some rest—you deserve it." With that, she's out the window.
"So no red wine, then," he says to no one in particular as he shuts down his systems. He does as she asks and heads home, uncertain how things will go for her tonight.
The next morning, when he arrives at the office, there is a tall, slender, green gift bag waiting on the table for him. There's a tag on the handle, and when he turns it over, it reads, "Thank you, Oliver" in a very feminine script and green ink. Instead of a signature, a very crudely-drawn arrow is in its place—a green arrow. He smiles as he pulls the contents from the bag, already knowing what it is. He isn't surprised when the label informs him that it's bottle of Rothschild 1982, but he is surprised that she managed to get her hands on it. Either way, it's a nice gift, and it keeps him smiling through the remainder of the frustrating day.