I'm delighted that so many of you enjoy this story. Thank you so much for all the positive feedback. I honestly can't thank you enough and it means the word to me!

A huge hug to Albiona who tightened the first part, because sometimes I'm just overly complicated.

I hope to update once more before 2015 ends, but I'm not sure if I'll be able to. I wish you a Merry Christmas [if you celebrate it] and a relaxing time filled with good food, good people, and overall goodness [in any case]. Feel loved, appreciated, and hugged, Jules.


'Code breaker' is my middle name

The gunshots echoed through the night, ping-ponging between two long rows of metallic containers, and spread out from the docks over the nearby ocean. The flying sparks of bullets meeting metal followed the path of the hooded figure running on top of them, jumping from one to the next and finally down, taking cover. The men, holding their assault rifles in both hands, aimed where they had last seen their opponent. Touching the concrete ground, the vigilante kept running—back to where she had come from. Her feet hit without the barest sound, even though it didn't matter with the ruckus the Bratvas were making. The mobsters emptied their guns, wasting bullets with useless, showy mannerisms. (You could say what you wanted about the Triad, at least their members would do more than press a trigger and wave their guns around.)

Clicking sounded as three magazines emptied, signaling the ammunition had been completely wasted. Bow raised, the vigilante was around the nearest container before they could reload. The first arrow pierced through the leg of the huge guy furthest away. His baby-blue sweatpants darkened with the soaked-up blood as he crashed to the ground. His yell of pain distracted the two men still standing. Running, the vigilante jumped, pushed up from the side of a nearby container, and twirled, her foot connecting with the shoulder of the man closest to her. He stumbled to the side, nearly falling to the ground.

Felicity kept moving. Being smaller and weighing less than her opponents, it was all about using momentum, about being mindful of her surroundings, planning ahead, and using the advantages her greater agility gave her. She leaped around the second man while grabbing him, turning him in the process and directing him toward the man in the blood-soaked sweatpants, laying on the floor, raising his weapon. The reloaded bullets hit his mob brother square in the chest. The laying man fired relentlessly, a roar that sounded like fury tearing from his lungs. She let go of the dead body and its protection and, moving to the side quickly, surprised the shooting man.

Her bow was readied in the blink of an eye. The arrow pierced the mobster's shoulder, nailing him to the ground. His yell changed frequency when a second arrow entered his other shoulder, effectively pinning him down. The figure in tight green leather with a hood pulled deep into her face turned and sent another arrow on its way—through the firing arm of the stumbling man aiming at her. His weapon fell to the ground as the muscle was sliced by custom-made carbon fiber.

Another cry ripped through the air. Its remains were still billowing over the docks when a 'thud' followed—caused by the sole of the vigilante's foot connecting with the chest of the last man standing, causing him to stumble backward and double over. A fist tightly closed around a bow connected with a nose. A twirl later, her foot connected with his head, and the man sank to the ground.

Felicity gave herself a second to stare down on him and another to make sure all the men were knocked out or dead. She tied the hands of the survivors with zip ties before approaching the first container.

Using one of her explosive arrows, she got rid of the heavy lock and pulled the door open.

The container was filled with wooden crates. That was unexpected. She checked the next container, and the next, and the next, and all of them.

The shipment consisted of heavy weaponry.

That wasn't what she had come here for.

She had come for Eastern-European women forced into prostitution, shipped into the US as if they were cargo. Aggravation visible in her steps, she headed toward the nearest man, checking his pockets. The sounds of sirens came closer, proving that Starling City wasn't so far gone that gunfire didn't invite attention anymore. Moving quickly and efficiently, she searched all the mobsters, finding nothing relevant but a security fob. Pocketing it, she ran, disappearing between the containers. The hooded figured was swallowed by the darkness just as the police cars arrived.


Oliver Queen had never paid much attention to office gossip. The main reason for that was the complete lack of gossip material in the IT department—at least as far as traditional gossip went. Hunter thinking Windows 8 should be installed on every computer at Smoak International had generated a lot of talk (because that whole thing could only end in total disaster with all the noobs in all the other departments who couldn't even use Windows 7 properly). And there had been that heated debate about whether a new version of JavaScript was necessary or not. Stuff like that got Oliver's colleagues talking while the rest of SI gossiped about Clara from Accounting and Jimmy from PR hooking up in a storage room. Oliver knew neither Clara nor Jimmy and if they wanted to live the cliché—fine with him.

Honestly, Oliver didn't care.

Normally, he didn't.

Today was the first day the rumor mill spiked his interest, because according to well-informed sources (Max Kirkpatrick from Human Resources) the big bosses had finally decided who'd work in the new Applied Computer Sciences Department. All the positions had been filled and the chosen employees would be informed today.

It was a rumor, of course, but one creating tension within Oliver that was a mixture of hope and nerves. Gerry had said that Mrs. Smoak-Lance knew Oliver was the best person working in SI IT, but after mulling that over in his head for two weeks, Oliver wasn't sure what that meant.

Did that make him too valuable to be transferred into another department? Or did that make him too valuable to be held back by not transferring him?

If rumors were correct, he'd find out today.

In an effort to calm his nerves, Oliver had retreated to the terminal in the server room. The soft buzzing of the hard drives combined with the cool air of the air condition calmed him. Blue and green lights blinked around him, indicating that everything was working perfectly. His eyes fixed on the computer screen in front of him, he willed himself not to press the refresh button on his inbox. He had done so only 30 seconds ago and he didn't even know for sure if they would inform the transfers by email. Maybe they'd call. Or come see him. He had transferred his desk phone into the server room. His colleagues knew where he was—all ways to contact him to congratulate him on his new job and its new challenges were open.

Except nobody was using them.

Oliver felt his nerves get the better of him more and more, reducing the percentage of hopefulness as the tautness claiming him grew. He really, really wanted that job and he didn't know if—

Knocking startled him out of his thoughts. His eyes snapped away from the computer monitor (and his refreshing inbox) to the open door. They landed on Felicity Smoak. Knuckles connected with the door frame she stood there, looking somewhat uneasy. "Hi, Oliver. Is this a bad time?"

"No," the word passed his lips without second thought. "Not at all." Feeling like he needed to add a greeting, he added a rushed, "Felicity, hey."

She let her hand sink. Even though there were hints of a smile playing around her lips, she looked hesitant. He sat up straighter in his seat. "I didn't expect you," he admitted and couldn't help but ask, "Why are you here?"

Finally, she entered the room. She wore another pair of high heels, purple ones offset by her black and white dress, and Oliver couldn't help but think that she moved very gracefully, stopping in front of his desk. "That's a very direct question when I've thought of a good opening sentence."

Remembering their shared lunch, her small talk practice, Oliver understood the hint. It made his heart to do a little jump that was entirely unexpected. Those 30 minutes shared in the executive conference room had been surreal, in an "I have to be dreaming"-kind of way. Because it had been nice and after the first awkward moments it had been easy and… fun.

Felicity Smoak wasn't at all how Oliver had imagined. She was so much better, softer somehow, less in control than he had expected her to be, but quick-witted and just really, really nice. He couldn't help the (probably very dorky) grin showing on his face. "Oh? I'm all ears."

"So," she said, gesturing to the server cabinet taking up the entire wall behind Oliver, "this is the server room. Interesting."

Oliver tipped his head left and right, thinking. "That's average, I'd say. As far as opening sentences go, that's five out of ten stars. And that's generous."

"Why?" she asked. "It's a good conversational starter. It gives you the opportunity to say something about all…" she waved a hand, "this."

"Yeah," Oliver said, leaning back in his chair, "but I'd never do that, because I know I'd bore you with it. I learned my lesson not to geek out around non-believers. So, my official answer is: yes, this is the server room."

She sighed. "Great, that didn't go how I pictured it. At all." Her posture stiffening, she straightened her back a little more, making herself appear a bit taller. "To answer your question: I'm here to ask you for a favor."

"Okay…." His answer sounded dimly like a question and more suspicious than he had intended.

"I found a USB stick and I'd like to know what information's on there, but I can't seem to access it."

"You found a USB?" he repeated, disbelieving.

"I did."

"Where?"

"I—" She hesitated. Her shoulders sank slightly. "I don't have a good answer."

He tipped his head, studying her. She seemed uneasy, but absolutely sincere and very serious. When she finally dared to meet his eyes, he couldn't help but anticipate that every word she'd say next were the absolute truth. "You're the only one I know who's really good with computers and who I trust enough to ask. I know that's weird. I tried to find a way to do it on my own, but I can't. Apparently, I was away from technology too long. But this is really important."

There was something in the way she said the last sentence that kept him from asking the question dancing on the tip of his tongue: why? He knew, if he asked her why this was really important, she wouldn't answer. And strangely, he could push down his curiosity about her favor, because maybe helping her with her important stuff might help him solve the much bigger and much more interesting mystery that was Felicity Smoak.

He only noticed that he was staring at her when she shifted her weight under his watchful eyes. "I know we're not favor-friends," she said. "We're not even friends-friends, I guess. But I'd appreciate your help." She lifted her right hand. Palm up, she gestured toward him. "Maybe, I could make it up to you with another lunch-date…." She flinched and hurried to clarify, "Date as in two not-yet-friends meeting."

Of course, God forbid they'd have a date-date.

Oliver hated the instant pang of rejection the thought caused. Pressing his lips together, he held his hand out. Getting the hint, Felicity revealed that she had the USB in her left hand all this time, and placed a small black device into his out-stretched palm. "Thank you," she said.

He nodded and plugged the security fob in. The next twenty seconds told him that it weren't Felicity's five years away from technology keeping her from accessing the data on it. "This is military-grade encryption." His eyes snapped to Felicity, who frowned at him.

"You can't get to the information, either?"

He stared at her blankly for a few heartbeats. "You wound me." Pushing his glasses further up his nose, he placed his hands to the keyboard and his attention on the monitor. "'Code breaker' is my middle name." His fingers flew across the keys, his eyes glued to the lines of codes scrolling down the screen. Okay, whoever had encrypted the fob knew what he was doing, this was some badass coding. Oliver believed in giving credit when credit was due, but he also believed in not being bested in his field of expertise. His mind raced as his eyes danced over the commands, looking for the pressure point. "Gotcha!" Oliver didn't even notice the triumphant whisper leaving his lips, lost in his work, in his hacking, in the challenge it presented him.

"You're in?"

Felicity's voice coming from right next to him startled him. He hadn't noticed her move.

"Almost," he answered and added the few missing commands. The code vanished and, instead, files popped up on his screen. Studying them, he frowned. "Shipping documents."

Felicity exhaling sharply made him realize how close she was to him. Damn it, he needed to stop zoning out like that. "Do you know what of?" she asked, her hands on his desk, leaning in to study his monitor and the files displayed there.

The scent of her shampoo filled his nostrils. He couldn't name it, couldn't place the smell. It wasn't the sweet strawberry aroma his sister Thea always surrounded herself with and it was nothing like the coconut and vanilla choices his ex-girlfriends McKenna and Isabel preferred. Instead, it made him think of summer and sunshine—and neither of those should describe smells. But it was all he could think as he noticed that her long, blonde hair moved with the constant soft blowing of the air conditioning, making her look so—

She leaned closer to the screen and ripped him out of his musings. He felt caught—and relieved that she hadn't noticed him staring. Thank God! He didn't want her to think he was creepy. Actually, he didn't want to act like a creep.

He placed his attention back on the screen just as she said, "All those abbreviations: KJH. FST. OJK. Could be anything."

The documents consisted of tables and she was right: all those letters meant nothing to him, but the numbers in the front row told him a lot. He scanned them carefully before he pointed at one. "This one's different from all the others."

"What?" She looked at what he pointed. "Why?"

"Because those eight numbers are the only truly random ones. The others have too many fours to be random."

Hands still on his desk, she looked at him. "Too many fours?"

"Yes, whoever invented those numbers likes the number four."

"Invented?"

"Yeah, those aren't randomly generated numbers, I'm sure of it. The probability that randomly generated eight digit numbers contain the same number 25 percent of the time is…." He mulled the math over in his head, but before he was done, Felicity pointed at the monitor.

"So, you're saying that this line here is the only real one and the others were invented to hide it?"

He forgot about math and met her eyes. A question greeted him there, but he sensed that she wasn't questioning his statement but her own conclusion. She didn't doubt his words. She had told him that she trusted him and, apparently, she had complete trust in him, his abilities, and his expertise. She simply took his word. Oliver's heart beat a little quicker. Trying to mask that, he hurried to nodded. "Yes, that's what I think, too. Let me check the other documents."

There were four anomalies as far as Oliver could see. Felicity looked at them for some time. Her voice was quiet and careful when she finally said. "Those letters… could you check if they are shipping codes used at Starling City Harbor?"

That was hardly public information—but Oliver didn't even hesitate. He needed to finish this, needed to know the solution, because this was interesting, and if Oliver Queen was one thing, it was curious.

The server of Starling City Harbor didn't have a firewall worth its name. Not even three minutes later Oliver's eyes settled on Felicity, standing next to his chair. "You're right," he told her. "Those letters refer to four ships. Three are already unloaded, the forth arrived one hour ago and it about to be processed."

A certain determination wavered around Felicity. She nodded. "Can you print all that out?"

"Sure. Or I could just email it to you." That suggestion seemed to mentally trip her. She frowned at him—and he dared a wild guess. "You don't have an email address, do you?"

"Of course, I do." After a second she faltered a little only to admit. "I mean, I did. I had one. I think…. I might have five years of unanswered emails."

A small smile pulled at his face. "I'll just print it for you."

"Thank you, Oliver. I really appreciate your help."

Again, the urge to inquire, to poke for answers surged within him, but he fought it down. He had agreed to help without an explanation, he had to live up to his word. A few clicks later, he got up to go to the printer. Stepping back, she made way for him with a soft smile as he headed around the desk. He stopped near the door. "About lunch. Don't worry about that. I'm glad I could help you. You don't need to feel obliged to return a favor."

He felt the need to say it; he honestly didn't want a charity non-date-date.

To his surprise, her first reaction was a frown before he saw understanding take over. "Oh." Her tongue darted out to wet her upper lip—and he couldn't not notice that gesture. "I didn't mean it like that," she continued, talking surprisingly fast, "not like payment for a favor. I'd really like to have lunch with you, as friends. If you're still interested after all…" she gestured to the computer monitor, "this."

"Oh." Caught by surprise, he swallowed. "Yeah, sure, I'd like that."

"Great. 'Course I'm interested, too." Her hair flowed around her face with the forceful jerk of her head, "In lunch. I'm interested in having lunch with you."

Of course, she had to stress that. Oliver brought his hand to the frame of his glasses, pushing them up.

Felicity tried a small smile. "I'll try to come up with a conversation opener that's at least six stars, maybe seven."

Oliver smiled. How was he supposed to say no to this? No to her?


Two hundred—that was a number that validated every risk. It was a number that assured Felicity, belatedly, that she had done the right thing in going to Oliver for help. She had debated that for many hours. Lying awake after failing to access the data on the USB device, she had tried to come up with an alternative, any alternative to involving Oliver Queen in her Arrow business. He was a smart man, highly intelligent and perceptive. Asking him for help was a risk—and it also was selfish, because he shouldn't be dragged into the danger and negativity of her nightly work.

But the only other cause of action she had come up with was capturing a member of the Bratvas and giving him personal insights in the talents China White had praised her so highly for.

Felicity had tortured and broken many men. It was part of the sins she had committed and could never atone for, no matter how hard she tried.

She had been touched by darkness many years ago and most of the time it felt like there wasn't a way for her to go back to the light.

But there wasn't any need to darken the shadows on her soul any more. Killing, torture—both had to be avoided if possible.

Involving Oliver Queen had granted her that possibility.

She was glad she had taken the chance. Because of his skills and his help, Felicity had freed two hundred underage girls tonight. Two hundred children, transported like cattle in metal boxes with little food and water, sitting in their own filth, destined to have their bodies sold to whoever was willing to pay.

Twenty would have been enough. Even one. But two hundred. Felicity wouldn't say she was happy about tonight, but she had to admit she felt positive. She had done a good thing today and not even her hurting left side could take away from that. A Bratva had swung a metal bar at her and she hadn't jumped back far enough. Changing in her cellar in the Glades, she had seen the bruise. It was pretty bad already, but she knew from experience that it would darken even more in the next hours and make moving in the next week (at least) unpleasant. She was ready for a shower and her bed.

Sadly, entering Smoak Mansion, her eyes landed on her mother and her mother's husband. They stood by the wooden staircase, obviously ready to go upstairs.

"Sweetie," Donna greeted her. "Did you have a nice night?"

"Yes," Felicity said—and it was only half a lie. "I went to see a movie." That was a full lie. "Avengers. Apparently, superheroes turned into a big thing while I was gone."

Quentin Lance huffed. "Yeah, apparently. Not only on screen."

A frown darkened Felicity's face. Suspicion mixing with a bad feeling claimed her. "What?"

"Quentin's upset because the Chief put him in charge of the anti-vigilante taskforce."

Felicity's posture stiffened involuntarily—and then she had to fight not to wince, because the movement really angered her bruise. "Oh," was all she felt like saying and then she was saved from having to add any more words by the ringing doorbell.

"It's past midnight," Donna said in surprise.

Felicity used the opportunity to turn away from the spouses, hiding that her heart had started drumming in her chest with the prospect of having Quentin Lance (a very good and very determined detective) at her heels. She opened the door.

Her heavily beating heart stopped its work for a second. She blinked, unable to believe what her eyes were showing her.

"Sweetie," she heard her mother's voice behind her, "who is it?"

Felicity couldn't acknowledge her mother. All she could do was stare at the blonde woman standing on her doorstep. Her brain told her that this wasn't possible. And then her lips moved and an awed whisper escaped her, "Sara?"