Technical Assistance

Chapter 7: Person Location Services

"Your city?" Felicity repeats. "Last time I checked, this city is pretty much owned by the Queens and the Merlyns. Which means you probably don't own more than a green hood, a bow, and some really pointy arrows." He lets out a breath, either in irritation or amusement, as she turns her back to him, flexing her fingers over her keyboard. "Now, who am I looking for?"

"His name is Derek Reston," the Vigilante responds quickly. "He's a Starling City resident. I tried doing some research myself, but I haven't found anything."

Felicity nods, agreeing with the sad truth of it all. "Google can only do so much, my friend." She hits a few keys to do her own research and frowns at her results. "Unfortunately, your buddy Derek doesn't leave a long Internet trail behind him. No social media accounts—not even a MySpace that has pictures of you with that one horrible haircut you had for two weeks in 2003." Softer, she mutters, "I still haven't lived that down." She pulls up a different screen and starts typing code into it.

"What are you doing?" the Vigilante asks her, leaning closer so that he can see her computer screen. She can feel his breath on her neck as he watches her, and her fingers fumble over the keys for a moment. She tries to tell herself she's afraid, but she's not afraid of him anymore. What she really feels is comfortable with his close presence, as though he's some sort of guardian angel instead of the vigilante that most of Starling City has learned to fear.

"Exploratory server surgery," she mutters distractedly, staring at her screen. She's barely paying attention to him now; she's been known to become so interested in her work that she forgets the world around her. Of course, she can't exactly forget the Vigilante, but he's no longer her priority. All that matters is the string of code she's typing.

"What?" he asks, demanding clarification. Felicity can't see his face, but she can guess his expression: brow furrowed, mouth slanted downward, head tilted ever so slightly to the side. Then it scares her that she knows the Vigilante so well.

"Exploratory server surgery," she repeats, slower this time. When he still doesn't respond, she continues, "You know—bridging the digital gap between employee and visitor? Performing unscheduled file maintenance of non-client systems? Warming my hands on the inside of a firewall?" When he still doesn't respond, she huffs in irritation. "Hacking, braniac. That's what I'm doing."

She frowns as she looks at the screen for Starling City Bank that appears on her screen. "Let's see... Derek Reston hasn't touched his bank account in close to four years." She tilts her head to the side. "Makes sense, I guess, since the Royal Flush Gang started up about four years ago." A few more keystrokes, and another screen shows itself. "Last employment history was about seven years ago at... oh." She stops as she reads the words.

"Where?" the Arrow demands quickly, his voice just behind her right ear. It sends a shiver down her spine, but she keeps her mind on business. She's already let her thoughts run wild once; doing it again is inviting unnecessary risks.

"He used to work at Queen Manufacturing. Apparently, when the company was sold, all the employees got nothing—Robert Queen was able to get better lawyers and get out of all the union contracts. All the employees were fired on the spot with no pension, no severance—the heartless bastard even weaseled out of paying insurance benefits." She sighs. "I'm suddenly thrilled to realize that Oliver Queen is nothing like his father. I can't see him doing this to fifteen hundred loyal employees."

"You shouldn't idolize a person you don't even know," the Vigilante responds darkly.

Felicity turns around in her chair, surprised for a moment to find his strong jawline only inches from her face. It takes her far too long to pull herself out of the haze and remember what she was talking about. She jabs a finger into his chest. "Listen, buster," she snaps, feeling that angry fire starting to build within her, "Oliver Queen is my friend. Do you understand that? He's off-limits. You don't say bad things—incorrect bad things, by the way—and you certainly don't go after him. As of this moment, the Queen family is officially off-limits, okay? That family has been through Hell and back and they don't need you to run around in your tight leather pants and put arrows in them. You got that?"