Mayor Oliver Queen was doing his best to give the Star City councilwoman his full attention…and not to look at his cell phone. He wasn't succeeding very well. It was close to four in the afternoon and his texts to his wife had gone unanswered since lunchtime.
All ten of them.
He was concerned. It wasn't like Felicity not to reply. When she was working – hell, even when she was taking a bubble bath - Felicity responded to his texts. And if she was busy, she told him so; she didn't leave him hanging. As the councilwoman droned on about Star City's debt and issuing municipal bonds to fund sanitation trucks, Oliver's mind kept running through the list of reasons for his wife not texting him back. None of them were good.
He mentally catalogued them from the least to the most serious:
1. He had done something to upset her.
At the risk of sounding like an overconfident husband, Oliver thought this one was unlikely. When he'd left the apartment that morning, she was lying in their bed, smiling happily at him more than a half hour after wakeup sex. There was no suggestion that he was in the neighborhood of her shit list, let alone on it. The only thing he'd done since then was go to City Hall and attend a lot of meetings about the budget deficit. They were depressing, but not something that would upset his wife. Plus, years of experience told him Felicity wasn't the kind of woman to employ the silent treatment when she was unhappy. She was far more likely to let someone know exactly how they had offended her - loudly.
Which led to potential Reason Number Two:
2. She had finally lost it with Curtis.
He could tell that working with Curtis was becoming more of a strain for her with each passing day. Watching her get ready to head to the loft was like watching a balloon gradually deflate; her smile would fade and the sparkle would slowly leave her eyes. Maybe she and Curtis had decided to clear the air, he thought, and they were spending the afternoon yelling at each other.
This felt more probable than Reason Number One, but Oliver couldn't help thinking that four hours was an awful lot of yelling, even for Felicity. Once she said her piece, it would be more in character for her to storm out.
This brought him to potential Reason Number Three:
3. Something bad had happened to her.
He didn't want to believe this one and reminded himself that he had a tendency to be paranoid, particularly where Felicity's safety was involved. He tried to convince himself that there was a more innocuous explanation. After all, she was spending the day in front of a computer, not climbing Mount Everest or jumping out of airplanes. In the world of secret-identity crime-fighting, that was about as safe as it gets.
Still, she had to drive to the loft, which meant she could have gotten into a car accident. And he couldn't stop remembering that Rene Ramirez had fired a gun in her general direction weeks ago when Team Arrow (the Original Team Arrow) had clashed with its defectors. In fact, the more he thought about it, the list of things that could go wrong was really pretty long. He hadn't even gotten to her nut allergy yet.
"Oliver?"
He looked up to see his deputy mayor, Quentin Lance, staring at him. Quentin looked perplexed and a little irritated, and Oliver got the impression that Quentin had had to say his name several times to get his attention. He suspected the councilwoman was going to be even more annoyed and reluctantly shifted his gaze to her - only to find that she had left. He wondered when that had happened.
He ran his hand over his face. "Yes?" he replied to Quentin.
"You wanna tell me where you've been for the last twenty minutes? I'll admit that Councilwoman Roberts gets to me too, sometimes, but ignoring her isn't a good idea."
Oliver sighed. He'd known Quentin Lance since he was teenager and had few secrets from the man. He'd even shared his identity as The Green Arrow with him. Quentin was on the very short list of people Oliver trusted and it would feel good, he thought, to admit his worries for Felicity. Quentin rarely pulled his punches. If he believed Oliver was being stupid, he'd tell him so.
Oliver rubbed the scruff on his jaw. "I'm a little concerned about Felicity," he said. "I texted her a few times at lunch and haven't gotten an answer yet. That's not like her."
Quentin's irritated frown was replaced by a fatherly expression, coupled with what looked to Oliver like amusement. "Did you and Felicity have a tiff?" he asked. "Take it from me, Oliver; the first few months of marriage can be tough. It's a big adjustment. Apologize - even if you didn't do anything wrong – and give her roses and chocolate when you get home tonight. Chocolate works wonders with women."
Oliver shook his head. "I'm pretty sure that's not it. We're not having a tiff. We're doing really well and we like being married. I honestly can't think of a reason why she wouldn't answer me, other than something bad happened to her."
"Maybe she lost her phone."
Oliver stared at Quentin.
The deputy mayor held up his hand. "Right - forget I said that. Felicity and her phone have an intimate relationship. They're never more than five feet apart." He looked at Oliver thoughtfully. "When did you last see her?"
"I last saw Felicity this morning, right before I left the apartment to come here."
"What was she doing?"
Oliver noted that the humor had disappeared from Quentin's voice. Before he had come to City Hall, Quentin Lance had been a police detective. He was starting to sound like one again.
Oliver replied matter-of-factly, "Felicity was still in bed. We had just…you know…and she said she was going to take her time before going to meet Curtis at the loft."
Quentin flushed, but continued steadily, "That's where she was headed? To meet Curtis Holt?"
"Yes."
The ex-cop nodded. "Then we should call Curtis and find out if anything happened with the two of them."
Oliver stared at him again.
"Right," Quentin repeated, "forget I said that, too. Curtis is having a hissy fit and not talking to anyone in Team Arrow right now."
Oliver exhaled. "Yup. If anything, the communication has gotten worse since I put Rene in the hospital during our last…disagreement. The only one of us he is talking to is Felicity."
"That was a hell of a lot more than a disagreement, and you know it."
The statement didn't come from Quentin. Oliver's head snapped in the direction of his office door and he saw with surprise that Curtis Holt was standing there, an angry scowl on his face. Oliver wondered what on earth could have prompted the visit. Normally, Curtis would eat dirt rather than come to see him.
"Really, Oliver," Curtis began, before Oliver could say a word. "So now you're not letting Felicity work with me anymore? Having our two teams disagree isn't enough - you have to screw up our startup company, too?"
Clearly, Curtis hadn't been there long because he'd missed the discussion about Felicity leaving home that morning to work at the loft. Oliver gritted his teeth and tried to keep his voice even. Nothing mattered at this moment except his wife. "Curtis," he replied, "I haven't said a thing to Felicity about Helix. I know how important it is to her and I would never interfere. Besides, if you'd stop to think for a moment, you'd know that I couldn't prevent her from working with you, even if I wanted to. Felicity's her own woman. She does what she wants." He paused and glanced at Quentin before asking Curtis, "Did Felicity tell you today that she didn't want to work with you anymore? Is that why you're here?"
Quentin nodded at the question and looked at Curtis expectantly. Oliver guessed Quentin was thinking along the same lines as him. If Felicity had decided to dissolve the business partnership, then that might explain her silence. She would be devastated at putting an end to Helix.
But Curtis shook his head. "No – she never showed up. I got to the loft late today – after lunch – and she wasn't there. There was no note, and when I tried calling her, she didn't answer. I guess she didn't even care enough to explain."
Felicity had never made it to the loft? Oliver's feeling of anxiety grew. He looked at Quentin and saw the man's brow furrow deeply.
"What time did you get there – exactly?" Quentin asked.
"About one." Curtis stared at Quentin and then Oliver. "Why? Did something happen to Felicity?" He sounded a little less angry.
Oliver shook his head. "I don't know. I haven't had a word from her since lunchtime. She was fine this morning. She said she was planning to go to the loft to work with you."
He hadn't intended to make that last sentence sound like an accusation, but Curtis interpreted it that way. He stuck out his chin. "So naturally you assumed that I had done something to upset her…and that's why you haven't heard from her? Maybe she just woke up and realized that she married a jerk." His anger was back in full force.
Oliver kept his own ire in check. "I thought it was possible that you two had had a disagreement," he said neutrally. "It's no different than you assuming that I had ordered Felicity stop working with you."
Curtis glared at him, but Oliver didn't glare back. It occurred to him that there was something useful Curtis could do right now and he wanted the man's cooperation. Antagonizing him wasn't going to help.
"Can you locate Felicity's phone?" he asked Curtis.
Curtis snorted, "You mean, track her, the same way you tracked us all those months ago? Back when we were still a part of your team and you decided you couldn't trust us?"
Oliver didn't blink. "Yes," he said.
"I don't think that will help."
Oliver looked up quickly. The voice – another new one to the discussion – originated from behind Curtis. Oliver paused briefly to marvel at the lack of security in City Hall because, apparently, anyone could get to the Mayor's office. Then he, Quentin and Curtis turned to find Barry Allen standing just outside the door.
And Oliver's heart sank. It was clear right away that something had happened and it wasn't good. Barry's hair was disheveled and the collar of his sport jacket was ripped. He looked tired, confused and more than a little worried. Worse; he couldn't meet Oliver's eyes for any length of time. Oliver didn't have to ask if this was about Felicity. He knew that it was. And in one second, his concerns transformed into genuine fears.
"Barry," he said, his jaw tight, "what's happened?"
Barry edged his way around Curtis and walked into the office until he was face-to-face with Oliver. Then he confirmed Oliver's fears. "Oliver, it's about Felicity." His voice was barely above a whisper.
Oliver wanted to shout, I can see that! So what is it? Is she hurt? Is she… He couldn't even bring himself to think it. Aloud, he said far more calmly than he felt, "I figured as much. What's happened, Barry?"
Barry looked at his shoes. "We just wanted to give her a good day." He was pleading for understanding. "Lunch with the team in Central City and then back home. It seemed so simple."
That didn't make any sense. Felicity hadn't said a thing this morning to Oliver about going to Central City or seeing Team Flash. "I don't understand," he said. "Felicity was in Star City today."
Barry nodded, "She was," he agreed. "But then she called Cisco to talk and he could tell that she was a little bit down. Something about an issue with the team." He glanced quickly at Oliver's face and then back at his shoes. "So we decided to have her join us for lunch. I ran to Star City and carried her to Central City and she spent a couple of hours with us. I think she had a good time," he added softly. "She was laughing."
Barry's persistent use of the past tense was taking Oliver's fear to an even higher level. "She was laughing," he repeated. "Does that mean that she's…she's-"
"She's alive, Oliver," Barry said quickly, realizing he had made Oliver think the worst, "but she's lost. I…lost her on the way back to Star City."
Oliver took a second to breathe at the news that Felicity was alive. Then he thought about the rest of Barry's statement. What the hell did the man mean by lost? After all, Barry was standing here. He'd made it to Star City. "I don't understand," Oliver repeated. It was starting to feel like a mantra.
Barry looked up and reluctantly held Oliver's gaze. In Barry's face, Oliver saw a number of emotions, the predominant one being guilt. Whatever had happened, Barry believed that he was responsible. "When I was carrying her back to Star City, I felt a presence following me," Barry explained. "I tried to evade it, and ended up running down some kind of tunnel. When I came out of the tunnel, Felicity and I were in New York City."
New York City. That didn't sound so bad. Oliver breathed again.
"It was New York City in 1884," Barry clarified. "I ran down a tunnel that brought us to the past."
The office went silent. Oliver heard the soft tick-tick as the second hand lurched its way around the face of the clock on the wall. 1884? Oh shit.
He didn't bother to question the time travel assertion, because knew for a fact that Barry was capable of time travel. He'd done it a couple of years ago when they went up against a villain named Vandal Savage. What Oliver didn't understand, though, was how visiting 1884 would lead to Felicity being lost. After all, Barry had journeyed there and he was standing in Oliver's office now, looking pretty damn normal. So what had happened to Felicity?
Oliver recalled Barry's words back when they were fighting Savage. When I mess with time it doesn't end well. He also remembered Barry telling him that entire histories could be changed, with people erased from existence and memories. Oliver reassured himself that that couldn't have happened to Felicity. If she'd been "erased," then he, Quentin and Curtis would have no memory of her now. So, by lost, Oliver wondered, was Barry really trying to say that Felicity's timeline had changed; that she was a different person?
He gritted his teeth. "Barry, you're going to have to spell this one out for me. What exactly do you mean by lost? Is she not…my Felicity…anymore? Did time travel change her that much?"
Barry shook his head. "To the best of my knowledge, Oliver, she hasn't changed at all – at least not yet. By lost, I mean she's still in 1884 New York. Someone or something pulled her away from me when I was carrying her back through the tunnel to the present. I tried to hold onto her…but I couldn't."
Well, that explained Barry's guilt. He literally had let go of Felicity when he was trying to bring her home. Oliver felt a surge of anger and then immediately tried to quell it. Partly because the reasonable part of his brain knew that Barry would have done everything he could under the circumstances, but mostly because he needed to be calm and to figure out what to do next. The good news, he thought, was that his wife was unhurt and unchanged. The bad news was that she was unhurt and unchanged in 1884.
The solution seemed obvious.
"Barry," he said sharply, "You've got to bring me down that tunnel to 1884. Then I'll find her. Once I do, I don't care how hard something pulls; I'll hold onto her and make sure she gets back to the present this time."
Barry shook his head again. "You think I didn't try that, Oliver? You think I didn't try to find her right after this happened? I can't find the tunnel now, no matter what I do. I've tried a dozen times to recreate the circumstances, but the damn thing won't appear. I'm guessing it was some kind of temporary wormhole."
The anguish in Barry's voice left no doubt about his efforts. Oliver didn't know what to say next. He could do a lot of things with his bow, but opening temporary wormholes was not one of them. He backed away from Barry until his legs bumped into his desk. Then he sat. The room felt like it was spinning and he could feel Felicity slipping away with every passing minute.
Quentin Lance cleared his throat. "So, let me get this straight," he said. "You," he pointed at Barry, "have the ability to travel in time just by doing…whatever it is you do as The Flash. You carried Felicity to 1884. When you tried to run back with her to the present, something pulled her away and kept her in1884 while you continued forward." When Barry nodded, Quentin turned to Oliver. "Normally, I'd say this is the craziest story I've ever heard." Then he shrugged. "But I have daughter who time travels. Only, she uses a ship to do it. Maybe she can use that ship to get Felicity."
Of course! How the hell could Oliver have forgotten? Quentin's daughter, Sara (aka, the White Canary), was part of a team calling themselves The Legends. They had a ship named the Waverider and they regularly traveled in time. Going to 1884 should be a piece of cake for them. Oliver felt hope spark in his chest and he stood back up.
"Call Sara," he said to Quentin.
Quentin pulled out his cell phone and tapped the screen. Then he stared expectantly at it. They all stared at it.
"She's not answering," Quentin said after a minute, stating the obvious.
"Try again."
Quentin tapped the phone and they waited once more. Oliver listened to the clock marking the seconds and started counting them. When he'd gotten to forty, Quentin exhaled and ran his hand over his shaved head. "I don't think she's in cell phone range," he said. "I'm sorry, Oliver. I should have thought a little more before I said anything. I mean, she could be anywhere right now…and any time. The chances of getting her on the phone when she's on that ship…" His voice dwindled.
And, as quickly as it had come, Oliver's hope faded. Another dead end. He couldn't recall ever feeling this helpless; not even years ago when the family yacht sank and he'd been stranded on an island. He needed to find Felicity and bring her home before history changed – before she changed - but he didn't have a clue how to do it.
He looked up to find Curtis watching him. The man's face was thoughtful, if not fully sympathetic. "It's a longshot, Oliver," Curtis said tentatively, "but there may be someone else who can help."
He sounded sincere and Oliver figured he would do his best, if only for Felicity's sake. "Who?" he asked.
"Connor Mason," Curtis replied. "Founder of Mason Industries."
The name sounded vaguely familiar. Oliver rooted around in his memory and recalled that his old company, Queen Consolidated, had competed against Mason Industries on a few contracts, back in the year that Oliver had been foolish enough to think that he could run a technology company. He also remembered that Connor Mason had the reputation of being a scientific genius.
"You're saying that Connor Mason knows something about time travel?" Oliver made it half statement, half question.
Curtis nodded uncertainly. "He might. A couple of years ago, when I was working at Palmer Tech, there were rumors about a highly secret project at Mason Industries. Mason was recruiting the best of the best in a number of fields; computer programming, structural engineering, and theoretical physics – particularly relativity and gravitational physics. Techies looked at the skills he was hiring and figured he was either trying to develop a gravitational weapon or build a time machine. My money was always on time machine."
Oliver frowned. Curtis's info didn't seem all that promising. A few unsubstantiated rumors?
"Do you have anything else?" he asked Curtis. "Anything more concrete?"
Curtis shrugged. "Not really. The only other thing I can tell you is that Mason tried to get Felicity to work for him back then - he called her several times. He kept telling her the project at Mason Industries would make her work at Palmer Tech seem like elementary school programming, and that she'd have the chance to see history being made. The big caveat was that she couldn't tell anyone about what she did and she'd have to move and work in a top secret location in California."
Felicity had never mentioned Mason's calls to Oliver. But then, they'd had a lot going on a couple of years ago and there was no reason for her to bring it up if she hadn't been interested. Oliver thought about Curtis's words. See history being made. It was a big stretch to go from that to Mason Industries has a time machine. On the other hand, the only alternative at the moment was to keep pushing Barry to find the mysterious tunnel – which hadn't worked in a dozen tries. Given a choice between doing nothing and contacting Connor Mason, Oliver was going to contact Connor Mason.
He looked at Curtis. "Do you think you can get a phone number for the guy? If I google him, I'm just going to get some corporate switchboard number. They'll never put me through."
Curtis shook his head. "You might not even get that. There was an explosion at Mason Industries a few months ago. The company is shut down."
Quentin raised his eyebrows. "An explosion? Which does that support - the gravitational weapon or time machine theory?"
Curtis frowned. "It could support either…or something else altogether. The explosion left Mason bankrupt and he's been keeping a low profile ever since. He even cancelled an appearance at a Tech Symposium at the last moment. Some people claim he was escorted from it by federal agents. It's only added fuel to the rumor mill."
Oliver decided he didn't care about the explosion or the federal agents. At the moment, Connor Mason was the only lead they had for getting Felicity home. "Do you think you can find Mason?" he asked Curtis again.
Curtis moved to Oliver's desk and sat down in front of the computer. "I'm not Felicity," he said, "but I'll do my best."
"Thank you, Curtis."
Felicity waited for Barry under the tree in Central Park – old Central Park – for close to two hours. For the first half hour she was hopeful, and for the second she was cautiously optimistic. After that, things went downhill. Barry didn't appear and the only people she did see were wearing 1880's garb. It seemed like a good idea to avoid them, given the reaction of the two women she'd met earlier. After checking her watch for what felt like the hundredth time, she finally had to admit that something must have happened to Barry and he wasn't coming back right away. She was on her own – at least for the moment.
She tried to stave off her panic. Yes, she was in 1884 New York City and computers hadn't been invented yet and her cell phone was useless, but she was still smart, dammit; her brains hadn't disappeared. She needed to use them now. She needed to be logical.
She had no doubt that wherever Barry was, he was trying to come back for her. He wasn't the kind of guy to leave a friend in the lurch. Common sense said she would make it easier for him if she didn't wander around too much. New York City, even 1884 New York City, was a big place with a lot of people. Barry would most likely come back to the last location that he'd seen her, so her best bet was to stay in the park. (Not to mention that she didn't exactly blend in wearing jeans and a pair of Steve Madden ankle boots.)
Fortunately, it wasn't a bad evening to be outside. The June weather was warm and dry, and other than the occasional mosquito, she was physically comfortable. Felicity didn't consider herself to be the outdoorsy type, but she figured she could manage one night in the park if she had to. Hopefully, one night would be all that was required. She noticed a park bench a short distance from her tree and decided to sit there. It was wooden and very similar to benches in modern Star City, which meant it was a little uncomfortable. Still, better than the ground, she thought.
She wasn't sure how long she'd been sitting there when she saw a man approaching. Her immediate instinct was to get up and leave. It was the safe thing to do for any woman confronted by an unknown male, especially since the sun was low in the sky and it was going to be dark shortly. She should pretend, she thought, like she had someplace to be and hurry off before he got any closer.
Something about the man's expression stopped her, however. He was young, maybe only a couple of years older than her, and he looked almost as lost as she felt. He was very tall and thin, and the suit he was wearing – which might have been expensive at one time – was rumpled and well-used. Felicity got the impression that he'd been walking for hours. He moved toward the bench tentatively, and then sat down a respectful three feet away from her.
"Good evening," he said.
He had an accent. It sounded Slavic, although she couldn't place the specific country.
"Good evening," she replied cautiously.
"Can you tell me where there is a good restaurant, not too…" he was searching for the word, "expensive? Is that how you say it? I am new to New York City."
Felicity shook her head. "No…no, I'm sorry, I can't help. I'm new to New York City also." Damn. She wasn't supposed to admit that. She had just told herself she was going to act as though she was a native, with someplace to be.
Fortunately, the man smiled in a gentle, rather than a predatory, way. He was kind of handsome, she thought, for an 1880's guy. He had a thick head of black hair, parted in the middle and worn short. His eyes were lighter – grey or blue, maybe - and very intelligent.
"I just came to New York today," he said. "My first day in America."
No wonder he looked at little lost. Mine too, she thought. Or, more accurately, it's my first day in nineteenth century America. Aloud, she asked, "Where are you from?"
"Serbia. You know it as part of the Austrian Empire."
Actually, she knew it as Serbia. In her world, the Austro-Hungarian Empire hadn't existed for about a hundred years.
"And where are you from?" the man asked.
Felicity hesitated and then replied, "Out west," waving one hand vaguely toward the setting sun. "I'm American, but I live on the west coast. I have never been to this…city before."
"Out west," the man repeated. "Is that why you are dressed as a…" he was searching for words again, "a cowboy?" He gestured at her jeans. "It is most unusual attire for a woman, but then I believe your wild west is a most unusual place. We have heard stories back home."
Felicity almost smiled. It was as good an explanation as any, she thought, for her clothing. She nodded. "Yes, many women dress like this where I come from. It's…practical."
"Practical," the man replied with a frown, "but very bold. I cannot imagine my sisters dressing like that." He shook his head. "Even my mother wore skirts – and she ran our farm when I was a boy."
His tone was disapproving and Felicity's urge to smile disappeared. She decided to change the subject. "Why have you come to America?" she asked.
The man leaned back on the park bench. "To work. I am starting a job in Mr. Edison's shop in Manhattan. I know a lot about electricity." He sounded more confident on that last sentence and very enthusiastic. Evidently, electricity was his thing.
Of course, Felicity thought, this is the time that Thomas Edison is beginning to build electrical plants. She dimly recalled from her Intro to EE class that Edison, despite his amazing inventions, had actually missed the mark when it came to delivering electricity. His insistence on using direct current, or DC, left him behind competitors who believed in the superiority of alternating current. AC had gone on to become the standard and Edison's chief rival, Westinghouse, had gotten a huge head start before Edison finally saw the light (so to speak).
She noted the man on the bench was still smiling. Poor guy, she thought. He's come all the way from Serbia and he's going to work for the wrong company. That kinda sucks. She wondered if he was even aware of the controversy.
"So you believe as Edison does – that DC is the right way for distributing electricity?" she asked carefully.
The man's eyes widened and his smile disappeared. "You know about electricity?"
Felicity blushed. "A little. I studied it in college."
The man sat up straight. "Women study the sciences in America? This is a most unusual country. Not only do women dress like men, but they take the same subjects at university." He narrowed his eyes. "Since you say you have studied electricity, what is your opinion? Do you think Edison is right?"
She wasn't sure if he was asking the question to test or to humor her. Either way, she didn't see any harm in answering honestly. Felicity was a little foggy on the dates, but she was pretty sure AC was validated sometime in the 1880's, bringing an end to the War of the Currents. Whatever she said now would be general knowledge soon, if it wasn't already. "I think AC might be the better choice for transmitting electricity," she replied. "It allows the current to travel great distances – you don't need to locate the generation plant close to the houses. DC can only travel for a mile or two."
The man burst into a huge grin. "You have studied electricity!" he exclaimed. "And we agree! AC is the superior technology."
"Then why are you going to work for Edison?"
He shrugged. "I must start somewhere. And everyone knows the great Thomas Edison. He has funding and resources. I believe once I am there, I can convince him to change his mind."
Yeah, good luck with that one, Felicity thought. Edison was renowned for his stubbornness.
The man slid a little closer on the bench and peered at her closely. "You are a most unusual and extraordinary woman," he said. "May I ask your name?"
Once again, she didn't see any harm in giving it. She was never going to see him again. "Felicity," she replied. "My name is Felicity."
"Felicity," the man repeated. "That is a nice name. In English, it means happiness, does it not?" Without waiting for an answer, he continued. "My name is Nikola. Nikola Tesla."
Nikola Tesla?
Oh holy shit!
Felicity nearly choked. Tesla was the freakin' father of AC. And he'd invented the induction motor, which powered nearly every household appliance in existence (although not her beloved computers). He'd even experimented with wireless delivery of electricity. The man had a gazillion patents and was a true genius.
And he had a really cool car named after him.
Felicity extended her hand, all the while thinking, I'm about to shake hands with Nikola Fracking Tesla. "Pleased to meet you," she managed to get out. To her surprise, Tesla didn't shake her hand, but instead lifted it and pressed his lips lightly to her knuckles.
The man had just kissed her hand. Nikola Tesla had just kissed her hand.
"It is my pleasure," he replied.
Felicity smiled. Maybe time travel wasn't the worst thing in the world after all, she thought; not if it allowed her to meet someone like Nikola Tesla. But just as she had that idea, it also occurred to her that there was a chance she was playing with fire. A twenty-first century technical expert probably shouldn't be talking to a nineteenth century inventor, especially when the expert wasn't one hundred percent clear on her history. A slip of the tongue and things could change in ways they weren't meant to.
She gave silent thanks that she hadn't mentioned induction motors or wireless electricity and promised herself that she wouldn't say one more word about anything technical. Nikola Tesla was going to have to figure things out for himself, without any hints from the future. He was a genius; it shouldn't be a problem.
Unfortunately, it also occurred to her - a little late – that he was a genius who appeared sort of…interested in her. Maybe it was her imagination, but he was still holding her hand and there was a gleam in his eye that Felicity thought she recognized. It was similar to the gleam she had seen in Oliver's eye for almost two years before he finally got up the nerve to ask her out. Now that she was married to Oliver, she didn't want to see that gleam from anyone except him - not even from a genius like Tesla.
Besides, Tesla was about a hundred and fifty years too old for her.
"I think I should be going," she said abruptly, tugging her hand away. "It's getting late."
Tesla frowned. "I thought you might have supper with me. We can talk more about electricity."
Holy crap! It wasn't her imagination; he really was interested in her. She was experiencing the nineteenth century version of being hit on.
She shook her head. "I'm sorry. That's very kind and it sounds interesting, but I'm…I'm visiting family and I promised to have supper with them. I'm going to be late if I don't leave now." Not the greatest excuse in the world, but the best she could come up with on short notice.
Tesla's brow furrowed. "I thought you said you were raised out west. Isn't your family there?"
Oh hell. "I am from out west," she confirmed, "but I have…cousins... in New York City. I'm only here for a few days so I should be spending time with them. They'll think I'm very impolite if I don't." She stood up and began to edge away from the bench, toward the nearest path through the park.
Tesla stood up also. "Then perhaps we might meet tomorrow? You can bring one of your cousins with you if you wish to have a chaperone."
The man wasn't getting the hint. She had the feeling that if she started walking away, he was going to follow her. "Fine," she said desperately. "We can meet here tomorrow." And with any luck, she thought, she'd be safely back in the twenty-first century by then. She might even be using her espresso maker - which she was pretty sure ran on an induction motor.
He smiled. "Very well. I will meet you at this bench tomorrow, then. Six o'clock."
She nodded. "Yes. That sounds good. Goodbye. It was…nice…meeting you." She turned and nearly ran to the path, not looking back. She had no idea where she was going, but she figured it didn't matter because was just going to circle around and return to the bench when Tesla was gone. Then she would wait for Barry.
Except things didn't work out that way.
When she was few hundred yards down the path, she noticed a man and a woman walking toward her. It took her a minute in the dimming light, but Felicity eventually recognized the woman as the brunette she and Barry had met in the park earlier that afternoon. The woman was staring at Felicity with an odd expression. Fortunately, it wasn't menacing. In fact, Felicity thought the brunette had a kind face – very pretty and intelligent.
She didn't think the man looked menacing either, until his suit jacket swung open to reveal a pistol holstered to his hip. In contrast to the jacket, the pistol looked very twenty-first century; similar to the Glock her friend, John Diggle, carried at home on Arrow missions.
Felicity didn't spend too much time analyzing the incongruity between the clothing and the weapon. Whatever is going on, she thought, it probably isn't good. She turned and ran.
Her fears were confirmed when the man ran after her. Felicity headed toward a small wooded area, figuring she had a chance to get away if she could disappear in the trees, but the man caught up with her before she got there. He grabbed her around the waist and swung her off her feet, holding her tightly as she twisted and wriggled. After she'd struggled fruitlessly for a minute, he put her down and clamped one hand around her arm, then pointed his pistol at the small of her back with his other hand.
"I don't want to hurt you," he said. "I just want information. So please don't try to run again."
Felicity gave him an incredulous look. "I have a hard time believing the part about not hurting me," she gasped, "given that you're pointing a gun." She nodded at the weapon. "And a pretty damn big gun, too."
The man shrugged – almost apologetically, Felicity thought. He kept his hand tight on her arm, but lowered his weapon to his side. Before he could say anything, his female companion caught up to them. She was holding her skirts up at her knees and breathing heavily from running. Much of her glossy brown hair had fallen out of its complicated, nineteenth century hairdo, giving her a more modern look. Felicity guessed that she was in her early to mid-thirties.
To Felicity's surprise, the man grinned at the woman.
"You're getting a little slow there, Luce. I didn't think you were ever going to catch up."
The woman rolled her eyes. "You try wearing one of these damn bustles under a long skirt, Wyatt, and we'll see how fast you can run. It feels like I have a small table tied to my backside."
The man laughed, but kept his hold on Felicity's arm.
Felicity stared at both of them. For some reason, she felt a little bit less afraid. "You're not from 1884." she finally managed to say. It seemed like an obvious statement at this point.
The woman shook her head. "No, we're not." She looked briefly into the eyes of the man she'd just called Wyatt, and added, "And we know you aren't either. We want to know who you are, how you got here, and what the hell you're doing with Nikola Tesla."
Good question.
A/N:
As you can probably tell, I decided to exclude The Legends from this story. I've learned, as I've plotted this out, that time travel is tricky to write (and I've gained a healthy respect for folks who write it well). Each series has its own set of rules for time travel and blending the two was going to be ugly. This story is going to play by "Timeless" rules. That means: 1. You can only travel to the past and not the future. 2. You can't travel to a time/location where you have already been. (You can't risk meeting yourself in the past). 3. There is one reality (or timeline), which can be changed by changing the past. I'm discarding the possibility of multi universes (sorry, Barry Allen).