Chapter Text
Felicity scans the row of neatly stacked pints of ice cream in her freezer, pondering which flavor suits her present state of confused denial.
So, Oliver and we-thought-she-was-dead Sara are hooking up. No big deal really. The man has needs. Needs that must be met by an endless string of badass chicks. The former castaway definitely has a type: confident killer women who happen to be muscly or named Laurel. And Felicity doesn't fall under either category, so here she is— alone in her kitchen, seeking the solace of Ben & Jerry as a reward for not bursting into sobs when she stumbled upon the Arrow-Canary make-out session earlier this evening. To his credit, Oliver was somewhat flustered by the awkward situation, although Sara seemed happy to continue their liplock in spite of having a mortified audience.
It's fine. All good. No worries. Nothing to see here. Everyone just keep moving along.
Felicity throws her hands up in surrender and grabs the closest container of ice cream, no longer caring about the variety. Digging a spoon from the utensil drawer, she schleps to her girl-cave sofa and palms the necessary remote control. She's in a Whedon mood because if anyone gets doomed relationships, it's the man who choreographed the exquisite, tortured dance between Buffy and Angel.
Lately, The Foundry is overly crowded with personalities and complications. Oliver is presently mired in drama, estranged from his enigmatic mother after finding out that Malcolm is Thea's father and caught between the feuding, jealous Lance sisters. Laurel is being a spoiled, drunken brat about Sara's return, especially after discovering her sister has resumed her torrid affair with Oliver. Roy is spiraling from a dose of Mirakuru. On top of that, The Clock King has painfully schooled Felicity in humility after breaching her firewalls and destroying her beloved computer system in Arrow headquarters beneath Verdant.
With Sara's return to Starling City, Felicity feels as if she's been swept into a forgotten corner. Apparently the lovely, lethal assassin is all things to all people: Sparring partner, vigilante/superhero, bisexual lover, defender of the helpless, science whiz, and competent IT girl, who also happens to be an adorable, strawberry blond. She can kick ass in a fight and seduce the survivors, regardless of gender. Worse yet, she has deep-rooted history with Oliver during his playboy and castaway periods. And now she's sharing his bed. Again. Felicity's not his girl, by any definition.
Some nights, there's just not enough ice cream.
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Sleep eludes Felicity, whose agitated mind scampers like a hamster on a wheel of worries and hurt feelings. A possible solution comes to her in the wee hours before dawn. It's time to be less invested in Arrow business and switch focus to her day job at Queen Consolidated, a place where her unique abilities can still make a difference. Felicity's bruised heart needs distance from the scorching passion simmering in The Foundry. Besides, she doubts she'll even be missed at Vigilante Central.
Felicity finds a measure of peace in her decision to shift her priorities. Despite her sleepless night, the bounce is back in her perky ponytail as well as her step as she exits the elevator on the 19th floor of Queen Consolidated. She's grown accustomed to Oliver's absence at his desk. It's been weeks since he's walked past Felicity's work station to fill his rightful role as CEO. Even though she no longer anticipates his arrival at the office, Felicity swallows a pang of regret, missing his daytime presence, their flirty banter and his affectionate closeness. Get a grip, she reminds herself firmly. It's a new day for a new focus by a new girl.
Oliver's extended separation from the family business worries Felicity. Moira Queen's high-profile trial and subsequent mayoral campaign have effectively hijacked the clan from their own hemorrhaging corporation, making it a ripe target for a hostile takeover. There's blood in the water, attracting sharks like Isabel Rochev, who is not Felicity's favorite human being after warming Oliver's hotel bed during their shared trip to Russia. Felicity's importance to Team Arrow may have diminished, but her unique skill set might yet prevent the loss of the Queen financial empire. Oliver remains ambivalent about his family's fortune, but a nine-to-five girl like Felicity understands that his nightly crusade as The Arrow is dependent on the immense wealth he takes for granted.
And so she goes to work to protect Oliver from risks he has not yet fathomed.
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The evidence, buried in encrypted company data, turns out to be damning — a systematic, intentional devaluing of Queen capital. Throughout the coming days, Felicity trolls and hacks her way into secret files that have Isabel's fingerprints all over them. She continues her relentless mission after hours, carrying the incriminating evidence home with her on an IronKey USB drive.
Since "her babies" at The Foundry have been blown to smithereens, she lets Diggle know she's working from her apartment if they need her. But the other team members seem absorbed in their own personal and family issues, confirming for Felicity that the choice to redirect her energies is the right path. And, she's privately relieved to be away from the nightly reminder that, once again, Oliver desires another, his actions plainly telling Felicity she will never be his girl. Yeah, well she doesn't need the front-row, R-rated seat, thank you very much.
After ordering Hawaiian pizza to be delivered, she lights a cluster of citrus-vanilla candles and sends her favorite playlist to her Bluetooth speakers. It's admittedly a nice change to spend an evening at home in comfy clothes, resuming her previous life. Before Oliver. Before The Arrow. Before she lost her heart to the enigmatic, closed-off vigilante and his relentless focus on The Mission.
She's nose-deep in financial data when the quiet knock interrupts her concentration. Unfolding from her nest in the corner of the sofa, Felicity slides her laptop onto a side table as she rises, padding barefoot to the door.
"It's about time, Marco," she mutters, in happy anticipation of toasted cheese, ham and pineapple. Still focused on the complicated money trail she's tracking, Felicity opens her front door, forgetting to check the peep hole beforehand. It's an oversight that will haunt her in the mean hours to come.
Isabel Rochev crosses the apartment threshold, bold as brass, without pausing for an invitation or basic civilized greeting, marching into the room like the callous mercenary Felicity suspects she is.
"Don't stand on ceremony, Ms. Rochev," Felicity drawls in honeyed sarcasm. "Please feel free to barge right into my home."
"A thief doesn't deserve to be treated with respect," Isabel spits, as her manic eyes search the apartment with agitated scrutiny.
"A thief..." Felicity repeats in confusion. "Who? And what are we talking about?"
"Don't try that dumb blonde routine with me," Isabel accuses, rounding on Felicity. "Your short skirts and idiotic babbling won't protect you now."
Isabel's face invades Felicity's personal space, her eyes lit with a disturbing flame of fury that is all too familiar. Felicity recognizes this specific glint of rage. She's seen it in Roy, when he's in a Mirakuru-fueled blackout, complete loss of anger control combined with supernatural strength. The first tendrils of genuine fear rise in Felicity's chest. Isabel is a dangerous woman under the best of circumstances, but if she's jacked up, then this encounter could easily go bad in any number of ways. Bloody, painful ways.
From past experience with Roy, Felicity knows that Mirakuru destroys the ability to reason and cope rationally. Typically, Isabel is a cold-blooded, manipulative ice queen, but that version would be so preferable to the ferocious stranger staring daggers through Felicity at this moment.
Felicity recalls the self-defense lessons she's accidentally absorbed during the long nights of Team Arrow training in the Foundry. She doesn't stand a chance of surviving hand-to-hand combat with Isabel, even when Mirakuru isn't a factor. If there has ever been a time to tap into her geek ingenuity, it's now.
Felicity falls back on stalling tactics as she tries to put some distance between herself and Ms. Corporate Crazy Pants. "And you think I'm a thief because..." Felicity suggests.
"Because you're stealing company files!" Isabel screams.
"Wow, Cranky Isabel is really loud," Felicity comments quietly, as an aside. Then, with a loveseat now between them, she asks, "But Isabel, I work for QC. I'm allowed to access company files, especially with my IT experience."
"Not all the files. Not my confidential files!" Isabel snarls, the vein in her forehead pulsing ominously.
"I've been auditing the company's financial records," Felicity explains with calm assurance. "Are you saying you are hiding financial files at Queen Consolidated?"
Felicity's question is more of an accusation than an inquiry, throwing Isabel off stride as she stammers with her answer. "Well... but no. There is ... There's information that's above your pay grade."
"As an IT specialist," Felicity counters, "I've accessed files in every department on every level of this company. I have top security clearance from Mr. Steel as well as Mr. Queen." Without breaking eye contact, Felicity's hand searches behind her for the aerosol can of compressed air she was using earlier to clean her laptop. Finally, her fingers clasp gratefully around the metal cylinder.
"Of course, Mr. Queen granted clearance," Isabel sneers. "You've been leading him around by his—"
"Hey," Felicity interrupts sharply, "Oliver and I are just... There's no inappropriate leading going on between me and Mr. Queen's ... personal parts. Just... stop being such a... such a Bellatrix."
Isabel's laughter is cruel and brittle. Felicity continues to increase the distance between them, now in sprinting range of her bedroom, which offers balcony escape.
Unfortunately, Isabel also seems to have a plan other than a hands-on takedown, drawing a small handgun from her bag.
"Oh, frack," Felicity sighs. She raises the aerosol can in her hand and points it at Isabel with her index finger poised on the spray button.
Isabel tilts her head in mock confusion and asks, "You brought a spray can to a gun fight?"
Suddenly, Felicity advances, grabbing a lit votive candle as she aims the aerosol at her feral foe's face. "No, I brought a flamethrower."
A fiery stream erupts from Felicity's extended arm, impairing Isabel's vision and aim, although that doesn't prevent the brunette from pulling the trigger. Repeatedly. A volley of gunfire forces Felicity to abandon her makeshift weapon and drop to the floor.
With tears streaming down her face, Isabel screams profanities as she shoots blindly, emptying the gun in Felicity's direction.
Scrambling toward her bedroom, Felicity nearly makes a clean getaway. She is so close to a safe exit. Before the 9mm bullet rips through the calf of her leg. Her shriek of pain draws Isabel's aim, attracting a second shot, this one grazing her temple. Felicity tumbles unconscious onto the rug of her bedroom floor, a slow trickle of blood darkening her blond hair.
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"Idiot!! Your interference could ruin this entire operation! Besides that, it's the wrong girl."
"Shhhhh," Felicity whispers without opening her eyes. "Can we use our quiet voices?"
Why is Oliver shouting, she wonders. He rarely yells, especially with an Australian accent.
Wait. Not Oliver. She's not napping in The Foundry. Then Felicity registers a splintering pain on the right side of her head. Instinctively, she wants to keep her eyes closed, knowing that it will hurt like a mother when she opens them. But, since no one else is searching for her, it's up to Felicity to get herself out of this pickle. After all, she's managed to get herself shot and taken without any help, so how hard can it be to reverse those steps?
"Oh, ow, ow, ow," she hisses as the lamplight stabs her brain like an icepick, but her determination to be self-reliant keeps her eyes open. If I only had my phone, she mourns, craving the sweet, glass connection to her world. Focus on your surroundings, Felicity firmly reminds herself, taking in the richly-appointed room. She shifts her position slightly to look for an escape route. An unpleasant crackling noise informs her she's lying on a plastic tarp, which feels like a dreadful cliché — the doomed victim of a serial killer. And if there's any fate Felicity Smoak is hellbent to avoid, it's becoming a cliché. Plus there's the doomed thing. Definitely wanting to sidestep that label.
The only doorway from the sitting room leads to the voices of her captors, so Felicity crosses that option off her chances for escape. But the lovely bank of low windows seems to offer more promising choices. Until she attempts to move. Agonizing pain shoots through her wounded leg and she clamps her lips down on the yelp rising from her throat. Adding insult to injury is the ridiculous racket made by the plastic sheeting beneath her. She freezes in place, her face twisted in fear and misery as she listens for any indication that the noise has alerted her kidnappers.
In the distance, a simpering female voice pleads and apologizes. Isabel? When did she discover humility? And more importantly, who could put that kind of fear into She Who Must Not Be Named?
The memory of Isabel's invasion of her apartment comes back in broken pieces. Isabel's incandescent rage. The pressing need to escape. The stream of flames flaring towards Isabel's shocked face. Gunfire. Pain. Blood.
"Oh, frack," Felicity murmurs as darkness reclaims her.
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