Reluctant Allies

Book of Secrets

The last thing Felicity Smoak expected this morning was to be in the office of a man she'd never heard of, in a department of the Federal Bureau of Investigation that she'd never heard of. Assistant Director Quentin Lance is a gruff man with a no-nonsense attitude—and she immediately thought that, if this didn't end with her in a prison cell (because it's never good to be called into an office one doesn't know, especially in the FBI), she'd like to work with him some day. But, then again, she isn't sure why she's there; she's just a lowly computer nerd, and she's only been in Starling City for six months. Why she's here is a mystery—one that she has every intention of solving.

"Miss Smoak," Lance says gruffly, "we're in need of your services." He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in a way that says, I'm getting too old for this shit. "Tell me, what do you know about Oliver Queen?"

As far as she's concerned, the question is out of left field; Oliver Queen is a moot point, for obvious reasons. "I know he died six years ago on his way to China," she answers, gaining momentum as her mind catches up to the question. "After he managed to get his hands on all sorts of government secrets and sell them to the highest bidders. He worked with criminals for years—basically became the go-to man for any sort of criminal activity you could think of. Forged papers, new identities, hitmen, money laundering, couriers—you name it, he could get it for you. Rumor is he started when he was sixteen—or possibly younger—and that he picked up the trade from his father."

"He's not dead," Lance corrects, and Felicity's eyes go wide. "We thought we could close the book on Queen, too, but he surrendered himself in Starling's FBI headquarters yesterday." He heaves another heavy sigh. "He says he can give us some of the worst criminals in Starling City—and across the world—but he has some hefty demands." He steeples his fingers. "The first of which being that he'll only work with you. It's also the only one he's given us so far."

"Me?" Felicity asks. "Why me? I don't know Queen from Adam." She hesitates. "Well, I do, actually, because he's Oliver Queen, the man who has a little black book of criminals in his pocket—each one of them with a favor he can call in at any moment." She waves a hand. "But, I mean, I've never met him, so why would he ask for me?"

Lance frowns again, rising from his desk. "I was going to ask you the same question," he states flatly, "but maybe we should ask him instead."

***

Oliver Queen is not the man she's been expecting to meet, even if she was to take away the shackles and replace the orange jumpsuit with an expensive suit like he usually wears. No, the man on the other side of the one-way glass from her is hardened, nothing like the picture stapled to the front of his file. She expects him to be boyish and cleanshaven with a charming smile and bright eyes; instead, he has stubble across his jaw and close-cropped hair, his features sharp and... angry. His blue eyes are dark, and he's not smiling.

Oliver Queen looks like a ghost, a dead man walking.

She takes a deep breath before stepping through the door, examining Oliver Queen in person for the very first time. Scars she didn't notice before litter his arms—some older, some newer, some thick, some almost invisible. She tries not to focus on them, looking at his face instead, at the eyes that study her the same way she studies him.

In the corner, her eyes flick to the guard, a young man fresh out of Quantico, and she doesn't need her psychology background to tell that the man doesn't like her presence—maybe he sees her as useless since she's not in the field. Lance assured her that the rookie was there for her protection, but something makes her think that Special Agent Roy Harper would be likely to let Queen kill her, if he wanted to.