Chapter: 10
Word Count: 4552

Notes: Hey, all! Again I'm really excited to be sharing this chapter with you; I think it will answer some more questions you guys have. Actually, I can think of one big one in particular I've heard several times. ;) So I'm really looking forward to seeing what you think about that.

Again, special thanks to Elsie B, my tireless worker who spent overtime on this chapter. :)

As always, reviews are much appreciated, but thank you so much for taking the time to read this!

Chapter 10
(Or: "That Time Laurel Learned to Understand the Team")

Shaking her head, Laurel steps back into the luxurious interior, the chairs against the sides. No question that this is a private plane that someone will miss in the morning. Roy hangs off to one side, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet tapping against the floor. Diggle seems more relaxed about the flight, reading a collection of classic short stories. Neither of them, however, compare to Oliver, who sits next to one of the tables, papers and a laptop spread across it.

All three men look up when she enters, and Laurel drops into a chair on the same side as Roy. Her bag is sitting next to it, looking untouched. Still a little concerned by the mental health of her pilot, she asks to no one in particular, "Are you sure Felicity should be flying at all? She said something about hearing voices in her head, and I know she hallucinates…" She trails off, waiting for a response.

"Hell no, she shouldn't," Roy grumbles under his breath. "She's crazy."

Ignoring him, Oliver answers, "Felicity is diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic with intermittent memory loss." He doesn't even bother to look at Laurel, his attention still on his papers and laptop. The words roll off his tongue as easily as if he was a medical professional. "She doesn't have delusions—she just hallucinates things. Sometimes she talks to inanimate objects, too." Flipping the pen in his hand, he turns to her with a slight smile. "But she doesn't hear voices in her head—that's just her idea of a joke."

Uncertain now, Laurel asks, "She really has mental health issues?" All three men turn to her with blank expressions, as though she's asking them if the sky is blue. Hesitating, she admits, "I finally managed to get the court records from her trial. I saw that she was exonerated was by reason of insanity."

The reporter presses her lips together for a moment, choosing her next words carefully. "Her file mentioned she'd had psychological evaluations when she was still in the service, before she was committed." Oliver actually flinches at the word. "If they were… questionable, Felicity could have used them to her advantage." She waves to the group. "You three are on the run from your own government, but she's relatively free to do as she wants. And she doesn't have to pay her living expenses." No one seems offended, so she asks again, "So is she really insane?"

The three men exchange glances before Oliver finally replies, "We think so." He lifts a shoulder. "I know what Caitlin told me." When Laurel's brow knits together, he explains, "Before the court martial, Felicity had authorized her doctors to talk to me about her healthcare information." She blinks, unsure how to interpret that information. "Caitlin—Dr. Snow—was convinced she needed help."

He swallows, his features suddenly becoming stoic, as if he's slipped on a mask. "And she hates it there. She didn't even want to go, but I convinced her. I was the one who made her stay." As he presses his lips together for a moment, Laurel wonders just how much he kicks himself for that decision. "Felicity needs stability. I—We can't give her that."

His eyes flick toward the cockpit, his face softening for a moment. "For the first two months after the court martial," he adds slowly, quietly, "we didn't break her out. We left her there, and I talked to her on a secure line every day." Oliver finds something fascinating about the carpet below his feet, studying it as he confesses to Laurel, "She… she was getting worse. Sometimes she couldn't remember our names, and she started lashing out at the staff."

The major's voice becomes strangled at the admission, and he has to stop to clear his throat. "We worked together for two years in Iraq. For two years, the four of us slept in the same quarters together, ate our meals together, fought together—depended on each other."

He looks up at Laurel, a new, fierce glint in his eyes. "We're a family—more than that. Family is just genetics. When you know someone would give their life to save yours, it creates trust." Oliver runs a hand over his face. "Watching Felicity spiral like that… it nearly killed us. I… We couldn't watch her do that. So I conned her out of the hospital for two weeks, scammed her a helicopter." A sad smile crosses his lips. "She was back to normal—her normal—in a few days." He looks to the two other men on his team. "That's when we started taking her with us when we were hired for a job."

The room lapses into quiet, and Laurel realizes that Felicity isn't the only one who has suffered in the last year. Though she doesn't understand why, anyone can see that he's torturing himself over it. God only knows what he survived after eight years in the military, but yet his pilot's mental health seems to be the thing that destroys him. Because it seems unfair to let him silently kick himself over it, Laurel goes with the first safe topic she recalls from his words. "What… what happened to Felicity?" she asks in a quiet tone.

"Same thing that eventually happens to everyone who fights in a war long enough," Diggle answers, closing his book. "She took a hit. I didn't know her back then and she doesn't really remember, but from what I heard, she got shot down over Kandahar three years ago. Gave her brain damage." He shakes his head sadly. "Made it through without PTSD, unlike most of us"—he cuts his eyes not-so-subtly at Oliver—"but the explosion screwed up her head."

"Captain Crazy has been knitting with only one needle since it happened," Roy interjects, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes. "By the time she signed up for the team, her psych evals were already going to hell. When she was a spark chaser, the rest of the crew used to call her Batshit Smoak." A soft, fond smile turns the corners of his mouth up. "And I think she kind of likes it—signed last my birthday card as 'B.S. Smoak.'"

Laurel opens her mouth to ask the next question, but singing stops her. Felicity exits the cockpit, throwing her jacket off to one side as she sings a pop song about being happy. Laurel can do little more than stare at her, and the three men just watch the blonde as she dances toward the back of the plane. Finally, Diggle and Roy turn their attention on Oliver, as if waiting for him to act.

Swiveling the chair to follow her, the major calls out in a calm, gentle tone, "Felicity, honey, what are you doing?" The soft nickname sounds odd in comparison to his usual stiff demeanor, and, for not the first time, Laurel wonders if they might be something more than members of the same team. Then she wonders if that's a mystery she'll ever be able to solve.

Something in his tone makes the blonde falter, too. She turns on her heel, smile never wavering. "I'm going to get the on-board wi-fi going," she explains, as though it's the simplest thing in the world. "I didn't get a chance before Colonel Wilson showed up and started being his usual charming self." Laurel doesn't see anything of interest in Oliver's expression, but Felicity's smile fades a little. "Why?"

With a level of calm Laurel herself couldn't manage, he asks, "Aren't you supposed to be flying the plane?" No unease touches his voice, asking her the question as though he's inquiring about the weather.

Her brow furrows for a moment, and when her confusion clears, she snaps her fingers. "I knew I was forgetting something," Felicity mutters to herself. She smiles again, walking up to Oliver and slipping her turquoise fingernails into his hand. His fingers grip hers immediately. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Oliver," she says, gratitude seeping into every word. "You're the only one who makes sense of things when the purple wobblies start to wobble." The blonde leans down to kiss his cheek, one foot going up in the air as she does so.

With that, she totters off, back to the cockpit. Trying to make sense of it, Laurel turns to glance at each one of them in turn. Roy only rolls his eyes, but Diggle just shakes his head with a small smile before turning back to his book. The apples of Oliver's cheeks redden as he goes back to his work, but it manages to put a smile on his face.

Sensing her confusion, the private just lifts a shoulder and offers in explanation, "Batshit Smoak, lady." He leans back again, closing his eyes. "She's one accordion short of a polka band, but you get used to it after a while." Roy shakes his head. "It used to freak me out when she did shit like that, but walking away from the controls isn't the kind of stunt that bothers me now. Not after the helo."

Crossing his arms, he continues, "When she rolled that bird in Iraq, I panicked and yelled at her. The smile just fell off her face and she went really quiet." He actually looks sad just thinking about it. "It was like kicking a puppy. I felt like a prize ass."

"You wouldn't win any prizes," Oliver interjects.

Roy ignores him, though he waves a hand at the major, eyes opening as he raises his head again. "We thought I'd hurt her feelings. As soon as I stepped off that bird, the major started screaming at me." He grins at the memory, though Laurel thinks it was probably anything but funny at the time. "I thought I was going to be the only person to ever survive a near-death experience in the air, only to be killed later by a pissed-off passenger.

"And just when I thought that was the end of it," he adds with a laugh, "Felicity powers the helo down, storms up, and chews my ass again." Roy shakes his head. "Turns out she was just as pissed about me yelling at her, but she had to focus on flying. She wasn't my CO, so I argued back and called her a crazy bitch." He winces. "She doesn't like that word."

"And she punched you in the face because you deserved it," Diggle finishes, a smile on his lips. "His eye was swollen shut for days." To Laurel, he adds, "It's in our nature to be protective of Felicity. She's a woman in a world that isn't always kind to women. On top of that, her mental instability always made her an easy target." He huffs a silent laugh. "But in a lot of ways, she's stronger than the rest of us. I think we sometimes forget that the only person on this team who outranks her is Oliver—he's an O-4, but she's an O-3. It didn't matter to us that her psych evals were borderline. She's one of us—and we take care of our own."

Dropping his pen and turning to face them, Oliver corrects, "Her psychological evaluations weren't just borderline." Laurel's brow furrows at the implication, and he clarifies, "I saw her records myself. She failed them, but the Air Force kept it quiet. Felicity's a genius, and they needed minds like hers. So they altered the numbers a little."

Her mind reeling, she voices the first thought that comes to mind: "And you were okay with that? They knew your pilot was insane, and they assigned her to you, anyway?"

Roy snorts at that, and Diggle just smiles before turning back to his book. Even Oliver seems to have a half-smile on his face. Meeting Laurel's eyes, he answers in a firm tone, "They didn't assign her to us."

Before she can do more than furrow her brow, he continues, "While I was in active combat, I was selected for a few ARGUS special operations. So when they pitched the idea of Task Force Alpha to my CO, he thought I'd be a natural fit to lead it." While most would be proud of that, there's no hint of ego to his tone. "ARGUS allowed me special access to Pentagon files—I had files on everyone in active service, all five branches of the military." He crosses his arms. "I knew I'd need a mechanic, a weapons expert, and a pilot. I handpicked this team myself." Only then does the pride come out in his voice. "Including Felicity."

"But you saw the records yourself," Laurel notes, her brow furrowing slightly. "You knew that she was insane, and you picked her anyway?" Though she has no right to say so, she can't help but think that he might be a little insane himself for picking her.

In dismissal, Oliver shrugs a shoulder. "Felicity Smoak is the best pilot the Air Force has ever trained," he states flatly, with no room in his tone for argument. "Even nearsighted, forgetful, and hallucinating, there's no one else I'd rather have behind the controls."

There's a warning in his tone this time, a closing of the subject. It's clear he's said as much as he's going to, and the last thing Laurel wants to do is provoke him. Instead, she reaches into her bag and pulls out her laptop. She has a few articles to write anyway and…

The thought hits her again, one that she's been trying to ignore for some time. But the reporter in her can't resist the opportunity to ask, "I know I hired you to find Iris, but…" She smiles as her brain starts running through all the possibilities. "I think you three would make a good story. Betrayed by your own government, without a country, and yet you survive by helping others." Slowly she decides, "I could do an article—maybe even a series about the three of you. Would that be okay?"

Both Roy and Diggle turn to the major immediately, as though turning the choice over to him. "All publicity is good publicity," Oliver states, never looking up from his work. "We could use some notoriety—it might help us if we can earn public favor." He turns to her. "There are three conditions." Laurel leans forward, waiting for them. "We get final approval before you go to print on us." He says it quickly, almost as if it's an afterthought. "And you have to ask Felicity separately, if you choose to interview her. Even if she says yes, you have to make it seem like you interviewed her about her work with us in the military, not for what she's done with us since." Wiping his hands on his jeans, he finishes, "You can't incriminate her in any way—that's non-negotiable. She needs help, and she can't get that if she's on the run with us."

"Deal," she answers. Laurel knows when she can't negotiate, and she has a feeling that Oliver isn't going to let her argue this. Instead, she pulls her digital recorder out of her bag, turning it on. "I guess we'll start at the beginning—where do you three call home? Do you have any family?"

The room is silent for a long moment, and she thinks it's interesting how willing they are to talk about their pilot, yet grow quiet the moment the spotlight is trained on them. The private is the first one to respond, lifting his head from the back of the seat with a dark expression. "Why do you think I went military in the first place?" he answers in a hard tone. "My parents are dead, and they didn't give a damn when they were alive."

Diggle looks equally grim as he answers, "I buried both of my parents before I went to war. My brother died on the battlefield before I threw in with these two. Married one hell of a woman, but divorced her because of my own problems." He levels a steady look at Laurel. "My family is right here."

Laurel thinks she'll have to coax an answer out of Oliver, but he finally fills the silence by answering with a wry smile, "I'm just another Hollywood Marine with authority issues." Both Roy and Diggle snort at that in the background. "The most interesting thing about me is that I'm a mustang—I started out at the bottom of the ranks, just like Roy."

She isn't going to let him off that easy. Leaning forward, the reporter insists, "Oh, come on, Oliver. There has to be more to it than that." Placing her elbows on her knees, she continues, "You have to give me at least something to work with."

His hesitance is palpable, shutting down almost immediately. It's a long moment before he answers, but then he asks in a low tone, "You live in Starling City, right?" She nods once, and even though he's now focused on his papers again, he continues, "Then you know more than you probably realize. There are four streets in Starling with the name 'Queen' in them—East and West Queen Boulevards, Queen Technology Drive, and the Robert Queen Memorial Parkway. All of them are named after my family. My grandfather started the company that's Queen Consolidated today, and my father was Robert Queen—the same one from the parkway."

The information takes her by surprise; back when he was just a name on a file, she had tried to dig further into his identity. While the Oliver Queen had come to mind, there were about a thousand other Oliver Queens. With his personal information redacted and no photograph, her research was limited—as it was with everyone else on the team.

She frowns a little as she studies him now, trying to reconcile the Oliver Queen in front of her with the one she knew from the papers all those years ago. She remembers seeing pictures of a pompous, rich brat with blond hair splashed across the tabloids, with stories of drunken benders and drug use all over the headlines. Now that she knows the truth, she can see it, but she doubts anyone on the street would mistake this war-hardened, sharp-eyed Marine from the infamous, womanizing playboy he used to be.

"You're that Oliver Queen," she finally answers.

He nods once, slowly. "There isn't much to tell that you don't already know," he continues. "My dad died when his yacht went down on the way to China." He seems about as attached to the memory as he would be to the weather. "My mother runs Queen Consolidated, and she's married to one of my father's two best friends." His expression darkens at that, but it clears just as quickly as it sets in. "Losing my father nearly killed her. And it almost killed my sister, too, when the heist happened." Laurel frowns; she doesn't remember anything about a sister in the news. "They're both in Starling, but I can't risk seeing them."

It's obvious to her that his mentions of his mother are few for a reason, and she knows better than to try and push him for now. Oliver Queen apparently likes his secrets. "Okay," she says slowly. "How did you three end up in the military? There has to be a story there."

It's no surprise that the boy in the red hoodie speaks first again. His lips quirk up in a hint of ironic humor, crossing his arms over his chest. "It was either this or go to jail for stealing shit," he deadpans. At first she thinks he's talking about the team's current predicament, but then Roy allows, "Not much has changed since." All three of them laugh at that.

"Family tradition," Digg answers without looking up from his book. "My father served, like his father before him. Never really considered much else. I was always going to join the Army."

Laurel's eyes turn to Oliver, surprised to find him staring back at her. "I was looking for the fastest way out of my parents' control," he answers, his tone betraying no emotion. "The Marine Corps offered it." He shrugs. "I re-upped and was a year in when everything went to hell. We were ordered to steal that cash, and the man who ordered it got taken out by an IED. No one believed us."

Taking the opportunity afforded to her, Laurel launches in again. "That's probably the thing readers will want to know most," she decides after a moment. "Last year, the three of you stole the equivalent of one-point-five billion US dollars from the Central Bank of Iraq." Unable to help herself, she leans on her elbows. "You three claim that you were under orders to do so, but there's one thing I'd like to know: How did you do it?"

She waits for an answer from any one of them, and finally Roy obliges. "Digg and I just did our jobs, lady," he answers, rolling his eyes. "The plans are Oliver's thing. Wouldn't expect it by looking at him, but the major actually has a brain in that head of his." Oliver pretends to ignore him, but the corners of his mouth quirk up in a small smile. "It surprised me, too, but the only person who ever stood a chance against him in a game of chess was…" He trails off before winking at her. "What was the name of that pilot who flew us in Iraq? The crazy one with the genius IQ?"

"Smoak," John offers with a partial smile, playing along. "Captain Smoak."

"Yeah, Batshit Smoak," Roy adds, as though being reminded. It's a game to them in a way, Laurel supposes, in addition to being a way to protect their own. "But even she stopped playing chess with him after a while—he pissed her off. He either won or surrendered."

"I don't understand," Laurel hedges. "Even if you surrendered, it still means you lost. Your pilot still won."

"No, she didn't—not the way she wanted," Oliver answers. "I surrendered. It's different. Anyone can win—winning is easy." He crosses his arms after throwing his pen to the side. "But losing… losing is being overwhelmed by your enemy's might. Surrender is something else entirely. Surrender is admitting that you don't have the circumstances you need to win. It's making a tactical retreat. I might lose, but I lose on my terms.

"That's the difference in having a plan and an idea," he continues. "Most people think that's being one step ahead of your opponent. But that's just an idea. A real plan is being two or three moves ahead of your opponent." The look Oliver throws her is pure confidence; he isn't trying to brag, but simply self-aware. The man before her knows precisely what he's capable of, and he isn't selling it as anything less than it is. "That's what I do for this team. I anticipate and counter our opponents' moves before even they know they're going to make them."

Frustration washes over his features for a moment. "I don't know what you've heard about our heist, Miss Lance, but that story gets exaggerated a little more every year." Oliver grins, flashing her a smile that promises a thousand things at once—and none of them good. She has no doubt that this is the man that could con someone out of a private jet. "We didn't rob the bank—that's one of the most well-protected banks in Iraq. And as foreigners in Baghdad? I'm not in the habit of sending my men to their deaths."

"Then how did you do it?" Laurel can't help but ask. She hasn't really thought about it beyond what was on her files before this moment, but now she's curious how the hell he could have pulled off something this big with two men. "How did you take one-point-five billion dollars out of Baghdad?"

Something enters his eyes that she doesn't expect—cold and calculating, as if he's working out a giant crossword puzzle in his head. "They were moving the money to a different location for safekeeping until it could be distributed," he answers with a hint of irony in his voice. "There was no way we could have robbed the bank, so we robbed the transport instead."

He leans forward, mirroring her position by resting his elbows on his knees. Except, when he does it, the gesture is almost intimidating somehow. "It was a coordinated attack," Oliver explains. "They had two lead cars and two follows. The money was carried in a shipping container on the back of a semi. Roy built a high-powered magnet. Digg used it to attach himself to the bottom of the truck and took out the first follow from behind. Roy came in on a bike, sliding onto the side. The bike crashed and exploded the second follow car.

"From there, Roy entered the container with a homemade hydraulic punch and a drill so he could attach the clamps to the top. Diggle made it to the top of the container and returned fire." Oliver throws her a slight smirk. "I joined them by using a specially designed grappling arrow and took care of the leads while they finished up." At her confusion, he clarifies, "I've always liked using a bow—archery is about control and precision. Planning."

Continuing his story, he says with a glint in his eyes, "Felicity—Captain Smoak—brought in the helo with a set of cables, and Digg and I hooked the clamps on the container to them. She flew it out of the city with Digg and me on top." He grins. "And a very pissed-off Roy inside the container."

Rising to the bait, the twenty-year-old remarks, "I told you, I don't fly with her. There's a reason they called her Batshit Smoak, Major. She nearly killed you with that barrel roll stunt in Afghanistan. And do you even remember that stunt she pulled in…?"

He trails off before turning to Laurel. "Well, it's classified, but we were in an aerial chase in a helo, and they fired heat seekers at us. So because Captain Crazy is a few clowns short of a circus, she shuts the damn thing off. In flight. Thirty thousand feet in the air, and she just goes cold." He crosses his arms. "And that's why I was pissed—I told Oliver I couldn't fly with her after that time she shut the helo off mid-flight. So he shoves me in the damn container where I can't do anything about it." He huffs. "To make matters worse, the whole damn thing is filled with money, giving me maybe three feet of crawlspace at the top."

Ignoring him, the major continues, "The number gets exaggerated every year, too." He leans back in his chair, shoulders sagging ever so slightly, as if he's starting to relax a little around Laurel. Picking up the nearest notebook on the table, he allows, "It wasn't one-point-five billion—it was one-point-two billion."

He looks up, offering her that lopsided, dimpled smile. "And a set of printing plates."