Technical Assistance

Chapter 2: Computer Engineering

Felicity sighs as she takes her strained, watering eyes away from the monitor. The day's work has been more intense than usual—installing new security features and protocols—and the added stress from dealing with Detective Lance has only increased the tension in the air. Ever since she dropped off that information to him—thank God she was able to clone that security footage—he's been particularly dogged about studying her. She's been down to the police station twice, and he's been in her office every day this week. She thinks she might crack under a little more pressure, but she doesn't know what else to do. In her paranoia, she hasn't been sleeping well, and her diet is now entirely coffee. That migraine has to do with more than just fatigue, she thinks, since she's been mainlining caffeine like it's going out of style.

She closes her eyes for a moment to relieve some of the strain, lying her head down on her desk for a moment and thinking of nothing. That's the plan, anyway, but her mind betrays her by replaying parts of that encounter with the Vigilante. The better part of her mind—the sane part—insists that he's a psychotic killer, but that part of her brain that still loves Disney movies and believes narwhals are magical is certain he's trying to help the people of the city because the cops can't play dirty enough to win. She's not that naïve, but she still hopes the latter voice in her mind is right; she'd like to have a hero to believe in. She prefers knights in shining armor as her heroic icons, but she could work with a vigilante in green leather.

Her mini-break is interrupted by three short raps on the frame of her open door that cause her skull to throb with her headache. Before she can tell whoever-it-is that their polite entrance has angered the minotaur in her brain that likes to ram against her skull with full force, he asks, "Felicity Smoak?"

The voice is male and unfamiliar, which is the reason she dares raise her head and open one eye. What she sees causes her to open the other eye and gape at him. He's handsome, with dusty blonde hair and stubble around his jaw—and, Good God, eyes that startlingly blue should be against the laws of nature. It's a face she knows well, one she's grown up seeing on television sets and tabloid covers for as long as she remembers.

For a very rare moment in her life, she finds herself stunned speechless in the presence of none other than Oliver Queen.

She's still unable to form a coherent thought, staring at him with wide eyes. She must have fallen asleep and be dreaming now because there's no way Oliver Queen would be standing in her office. She blinks twice, but he's still there when her eyes open. She can't believe her eyes, so she goes with the inevitable second option: this job has literally driven her insane, and she's hallucinating.

Oliver, for his part, takes things rather well, just smiling a pitying smile at her as if he's used to people gawking at him like idiots. "I'm Oliver Queen," he states, sounding for all the world like the smug bastard she's always thought he would be in person.

She flushes in embarrassment, frustrated that she's made a fool of herself in less than a minute into the conversation. "I'm aware of that," she snaps before realizing she's speaking to the future CEO of the company she works for. Nicer, she asks, "What can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

He winces at something she says before he smiles that charming, playboy grin that has lured in many a girl. "Mr. Queen was my father," he replies, his tone cheerful enough despite the forlorn look in his eyes. "I'm not anybody's boss. You can call me Oliver."

They're silent for a moment, and Felicity realizes that he's not going to continue until she rephrases the question. "Fine, then," she replies, hoping she sounds professional enough. "What can I do for you ...Oliver?" His name sounds foreign on her tongue, like it's something she's forbidden to say. It doesn't feel right to be so casual in such a strictly-business arrangement.