Many Hats to Wear

Chapter 2: Vigilante's Personal Internet Researcher

The second time she visits him, she's not what he expects.

She does it differently this time.  She doesn't shut off the lights, and she doesn't make an effort to announce her presence.  It's way past midnight—and much later than Oliver should be working—but he's absolutely stumped on the smartphone the Vigilante gave him.  Though it looks innocent enough—just like every other iPhone in the country—he quickly realized that the similarities ended the moment he cracked the shell.  All the tech inside—that he can actually trace to something—is military-grade and impossible to trace back to anything other than the manufacturer, and most of the apps are completely locked down.  He can't even get the Internet browser to come up, for the love of God.  He's been working on it for no less than two weeks, and he's finally coming to the conclusion that this is one puzzle he might not ever crack.  He's actually afraid to use it, because there's not a service provider registered, making the phone highly illegal.

As a personal touch—and Oliver's favorite part, really—she's listed the only number in the phone as "Gwendolyn Arrow."  He still smiles when he sees it.  G. Arrow—Gwen Arrow—Green Arrow.  Let it never be said that Starling City's own personal angel of death never does things halfway.  Or without style, for that matter."Good luck with that," she says from behind him, causing him to jump again.

"Jesus Christ!" he exclaims.  "Can't you ever use a freaking door?"

She continues on as if he's said nothing at all.  "I'm told that not even a government research team could crack that, though I think if anyone could, it would be you."  The compliment surprises him, and he thinks she means it.  Since middle school, girls have been flattering his ego to get free tech repairs, and he's yet to know a girl who doesn't talk to him for the same reason.  But he actually thinks she might not be offering idle, silly, flattering words this time.

"Let me guess," he says once he realizes she's not going to tell him anything else about the phone, "you need help again."  He sighs, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, exhausted by too few hours in bed and too many in front of the computer screen.  "I'm thinking of adding 'Vigilante's Personal Internet Researcher' to my job title."  Her expression is anything but amused, so he quickly adds, "Because I love doing it so much."

One corner of her mouth pulls upward slightly at that, but she speaks as though he hasn't just rambled on for too long.  "I'm looking for someone," she says.

"Aren't we all," he replies dryly.  "I"m hoping she's blonde, pretty, smart, and appreciates a guy who can hack multiple government databases in his sleep. What about you?"

She actually chuckles at that, lips managing to turn upward somewhat.  She has a pretty smile, he thinks, then berates his cursed male hormones for letting him think that.  She could kill him before he even knew she was there, after all, if she wanted to.  But something makes him think she wouldn't want to.

"His name is Derek Reston," she continues.  "We were close friends when I was younger, and I want to get back in touch with him."  Oliver knows it's a complete and total line of crap, but he  does like this game the two of them seem to be playing.  It's just the way they communicate now, and it's easier for him to talk to her than any other girl to whom he's spoken.

"Guess you can't exactly reach out to him on Facebook," Oliver replies dryly, already starting to search through various databases for the name.

"I don't even have a MySpace account," she agrees as she pulls up the same chair she sat in last time.  "Though I guess I do need better brand awareness," she muses in a completely not-serious way.  "Maybe I need to start a Twitter feed.  That's what all the kids are into these days, right?"

Oliver snorts.  "Yeah, right," he agrees sarcastically.  "I can see the first post now:  'Just left the police a present down at the docks, hanging by his feet.  You're welcome.'"  He turns back to his work.  "There's not much here that's recent," he informs her.  "No credit activity, no utility bills..."  He stumbles onto something else. "You must have met him at work, huh?  Back when he worked at factory?"

The act is up for her now, her mouth turning down at the corners.  "What factory?"

"The Smoak steel factory," he clarifies, then cringes as he realizes he knows more about her than he probably should.  "Sorry, but you said you'd heard of me--last time, I mean.  No one usually hears about me—I'm an IT gremlin dwelling in the basement of Smoak Consolidated, very happily I might add.  The people who know to ask for me by name work here."  She frowns more deeply than before.  "Please don't put an arrow in me," he adds quickly.  "I promise I haven't tried to look into it or anything.  I have a pretty strict moral code, so I if I had looked into it and found you, I would be forced to report you to the police.  And you're the only person who really talks to me like a human being and not an IT gremlin, so I didn't really want to do that.  Well, that and I thought you'd put an arrow in me—which is only cool when it's in the knee in this game you probably—"

"Oliver," she calls forcefully again to cut him off mid-babble, and he can't help but like the way she says his name.  "Derek Reston," she reminds him.  "He worked at the steel factory."

"Right," he says, unable to hide the relief in his voice.  She's not going to kill him tonight, at least, so that is something.  "He worked there for fifteen years, until the factory shut down.  There was a loophole in the union contracts, and the Smoaks dropped the factory out from under them without having to pay severance packages or pensions.  Fifteen hundred workers lost their jobs, and got nothing to show for it.  Most of them lost their homes, including your friend," he emphasizes the word with suspicion, "Derek Reston.  Why did he become a blip on your radar?"

She's already out of her chair by then.  "Royal Flush Gang," she says by way of explanation, giving him something else to Google when she leaves.  She's nearly out the window when she turns back and says, "By the way, thank you."

"Anytime," he says, and he's surprised to find that he means it.  "Do you owe me another favor now?"

"Not this time," she says seriously.  "You've been looking into that phone, which not only voids the warranty, but voids a favor.  You still have one, though, any time you want it."  She smiles, a small quirk of her lips.  "And Oliver?  I do actually know what Skyrim is, for the record."  Without waiting for a response, she throws herself out the window and disappears into the night.

His eyes are probably as round as saucers.  The Vigilante knows Skyrim by an arrow-to-the-knee reference.  Holy crap, he thinks, she's probably the coolest girl he'll ever meet.