Title: Decode
Chapter: 1 - Talking Shop
Word Count: 3974

Notes: First of all, this is a semi-early birthday present for geniewithwifi. She asked for a multi-chapter fic for her birthday, and this felt like something I could deliver. I'm going to update on Wednesdays since her birthday is the 27th, and we'll just kind of see where this goes. I'm thinking somewhere in the 5-10 chapter range right now-which is highly doable.

Secondly, you've probably noticed that I haven't been answering reviews over here. I apologize for that, but I had an issue where it couldn't find the reviews when I went to respond. So, because of that, I was a little delayed. I sent in to support and everything seems to be working now. Sorry for any inconvenience.

It might be a very well-kept secret that one of my favorite movies is 2012's Safe, starring Jason Statham. (I'm also a huge Jason Statham fan, but that's neither here nor there.) I made the mistake of watching it a few nights ago while writing Arrow fanfiction, and this little idea popped into my head. I kind of wanted to see it play out Arrow-style, and so here we are.

Sorry I haven't been writing much; I kind of had a disaster over break to clean up, and that's taking most of my time. That and I wanted to finish this-or mostly finish it-before I started posting. It takes quite a while to write something of this magnitude.

Also, I profusely apologize for bringing the flashback wig into this AU. Don't worry, we'll burn it in effigy soon. I love Oliver too much to let him suffer like that.

As always, curious to know what you think. :)

Felicity always thought that captivity would feel different, like living in a cage or being surrounded by guards every waking moment. But despite her current situation—surrounded by Chinese Triad members that make citizens pretend she doesn't exist—she doesn't typically feel trapped. For the most part, she moves around Starling City as she pleases, coming back to a Triad safe house in Chinatown at night.

The worst part, however, are moments like these, when the leader of Starling's branch of the Triad parades her little blonde recordkeeper around on the streets. In these moments, Felicity does feel like a prisoner—even hates her life. It makes her feel like she's just a dog on Chien Na Wei's very short leash, but she had no other choice when they picked her up in Vegas, offering a bargain between her mother's life for her mathematical mind and eidetic memory. But despite how they use her, she usually feels free to do as she pleases for the most part, even though the woman she calls China White (which isn't appreciated) doesn't approve of Felicity's dark clothing, makeup, and hair—or the purple streaks through it, for that matter. As tight as her leash may sometimes be, they won't deny her this, especially now that cancer has finally taken her mother.

Of course, they haven't told Felicity about that—or she might try to escape.

Frustrated, she buries her feelings under the cold, analytical side of business because she's done this for long enough she should be used to it now. For the last eighteen years, she's been keeping the Triad's accounts and money laundering pathways in her head, away from the easily tracked computer records they'd have to use without her.

Today, though, is accounting day, meaning she has one job and one alone. Only on accounting day does she curse her father internally for getting them into this mess, but she has to smother it down in favor of answering the unasked question. "Mira Street earned twenty-six thousand this week, the same last week," she informs China White in fluent Mandarin, earning her some looks from some of the citizens on the street. She quickly returns to invisible status, though, when they see Chien Na Wei and her group of Triad guards—all armed to the teeth—surrounding her.

"Forty-Second Street holdings are up seventy-two thousand five hundred and thirty-five dollars," Felicity continues. "Hojin is at fifteen thousand a week. Last week was the same. It lost money in May, but has been profiting since, with highs in July and August. Cheng Sao made thirty-two thousand last week, and thirty-two-point-five this week, with a seven percent increase every month." She takes a moment to run her tongue over her black-painted lips, again wondering what kind of person her father must have been to sell her into this life. Apparently his gambling debts were worth more to him than her. "Five percent of the total is from comes from Mr. Liang. Estimated profit for this month off of Forty-Second alone is between six to eight thousand a week."

Trying to hold her tone steady as they enter the illegal casino, she hopes the white-haired she-devil doesn't notice the way she skims over the next one. "The casino earned eight hundred thousand this week. It was eight hundred thousand last week."

She nearly thinks she's gotten away with it when an arm strikes out to grasp her jaw, and Felicity finds herself staring into Chien Na Wei's dark, cold eyes. "The casino is exactly eight hundred thousand?" she asks sharply, in a tone that promises nothing good if she lies. "I want the exact number, my dear."

Though she hesitates, she knows there's only one choice. Until she can gather enough money to escape from the Triad, she has to stay in line so they don't suspect her upcoming treachery. "It's almost eight hundred thousand," she answers slowly. "Seven hundred eighty-five thousand, three hundred and sixty-nine." She bites her lip, sealing its fate even as they enter: "It's losing money."

Knowing what's about to come, Felicity winces, turning away as the beating begins with little warning. All of the men participate, beating the hell out of the floor manager for his failures. She doesn't watch, unable to see what she knows is a violent, brutal attack. It continues for so long that she loses track of time, ending with a single, loud gunshot. "I don't understand," she breathes out in a whisper as she turns toward China White, though she still can't look at the man's body. "Why did you beat him if you were only going to kill him?"

"You don't understand," she answers coldly, "because you don't understand business." Then the woman waves her away in clear dismissal. "We'll resume this tomorrow, when your head is clear for numbers."

Breathing heavily, Felicity practically runs out of the casino, out onto the streets of Chinatown with a need to be in the mass of bodies for a moment, to get lost in the crowd. She never does, of course, not as a white girl in the middle of Chinatown where she's an outsider, but it still feels more anonymous than being flanked by guards. Still, they know her well enough—probably fear her in some ways—because, Chinese-American or not, to them she does belong here. While she might be American in every sense of the word, according to her passport, she is a naturalized citizen named Mei Lin, adopted from overseas by one of Chien Na Wei's lieutenants.

Despite the horror of being their captive, though, they leave her free to roam the city at will, with only two rules that could have disastrous results: do not leave Chinatown and never speak English. It's for her safety, they say; after all, the Triad has been feuding with the Bratva presence in the city for years, and if they think she can't speak English, it will grant her some safety. No one other than Wei herself knows about her language skills.

Even though she does speak English—and they taught her Russian, too, just to be safe.

After a few moments of walking aimlessly through the city, Felicity's head clears, focusing on the beauty and not the cruelty of her surroundings. Red lanterns hang over the awning of a grocery store. Colorful garlands and streamers add to its beauty. Even the gaudy decorations in front of a tourist's souvenir shop aid the bright splendor of the neighborhood, hiding the too-close buildings with crumbling façades and loose bricks.

Slowly she makes her way through the maze of streets without any aim or goal. She doesn't even realize she's walked about eight blocks until shouting snaps her out of her daze. Automatically, her head turns toward the sound, watching as a local shopkeeper, Mr. Liang, yells at a customer in English. Though she typically tries to avoid situations like these, today she's drawn to it. Mr. Liang is one of the most reserved people she's ever met—except where it comes to money.

Entering the shop, Felicity picks up the thread of the conversation. "… have no money, you have to leave now!" he shouts at the man. Out of curiosity, her eyes flick over to the customer, watching as he rummages through his pockets, presumably for a wallet.

It takes a moment for her to understand the scene, but, as an outsider who spends most of her time as an observer and not a participant, she takes in the small details that line it up for her. His clothes are old and worn, mostly faded, gray, and stained. The backpack on his shoulders is brown canvas and just as ancient, stained in places with a few broken buckles. Despite the nature of his clothes, he's dressed in several layers, as though prepared to weather the cold nights in Starling City. He wears a black ski cap on his head, long, brown hair sticking out from under it. Though everything else seems old, his shoes are new and in good condition—because he spends the money he has on the things he needs most.

Because it's Starling City, she's seen more than her fair share of homeless people. They usually look, tired, resigned, and weary, with shoulders sagging under the weight of their hardships and poor circumstances. But despite his appearance, the man before her stands with a straight back, square shoulders, and his head held high. Even his blue eyes seem defiant as he stares at the shopkeeper.

Despite his troubles, the world still hasn't broken him.

Though she knows she shouldn't get involved, Felicity can't help herself. That sort of determination is rare, and she finds herself drawn to it somehow. "What seems to be the problem, Mr. Liang?" she asks in a quiet voice, her Mandarin still able to cut through his yelling in English.

The response is immediate; he doesn't even dare to look at her as he answers. "Mind your own business, you stupid cow!" he shouts at her in Mandarin. Her previous confusion is replaced by irritation. Never before has she wanted to use her status with the Triad to her advantage, but today, she might just. While she expects disrespect from Chien Na Wei, she certainly doesn't take it from people as spiteful as Mr. Liang.

"There's no need to yell at the lady," a low, hesitant voice cuts in, speaking Mandarin as fluently as the two of them. Felicity turns at the sound, surprised to find the would-be customer looking at her with those sharp eyes. Now that she's looking at him, she can't help but admit that, somewhere under the dirt ground into his skin, he's rather handsome. His square jaw is covered in dark stubble, the corner of his mouth turning up at her before turning back to the shopkeeper. "I seem to have misplaced my wallet, and I apologize for the inconvenience." He turns then to leave without his items, but Felicity doesn't think that's fair.

"Wait," she calls at him, and only then does Mr. Laing look at her, his irritation quickly fading into surprise and then fear. The man in the ski cap, however, only stares at her with a curious expression, as if expectant to see what she does next. Only then does she notice he stands tall, with pride. Though she'd be willing to replace the contents of his wallet—he clearly needs it more than her, after all—Felicity now realizes he probably wouldn't take it, refusing it as charity.

Clearly realizing his mistake, Liang starts in a rush, "Forgive me, Lin Mei. I didn't realize—"

She cuts him off immediately, not wanting to hear him suck up to her. "How much does his purchase amount to?" she asks instead.

"Four dollars, fifty-five cents," the shopkeeper answers promptly.

Nodding, Felicity pulls a twenty dollar-bill out of her pockets, handing it to Laing with a smile he doesn't deserve. "I'll pay for his purchases," she volunteers, passing the bill to the shopkeeper. "You can give the change to this man." He looks as though he wants to argue, so she adds, "Or you can choose not to, and I'll be glad to inform Chien Na Wei that your profits are down this month." He pales as she smiles. "That would be bad business for you."

She stays for long enough to ensure the fifteen dollars and forty-five cents are returned to the homeless man before turning on her heel and walking out. Already she understands that he'll only argue with her, refuse the money. Besides, she didn't do it for a thank-you anyway; she did it because some asshole out there was heartless enough to steal from someone who was already down on his luck. It might be twenty dollars out of her small escape fund, but, well, he needed it more than her. This isn't about her—or even him.

This is about the casino owner who is lying dead in his own blood.

By the time Oliver thinks to argue with the Goth woman who paid for his snacks, she's already gone, leaving him more baffled than ever. He can count on one hand the number of times someone has dared to try and help him, even though he doesn't accept their money. On the rare occasions he has, they've expected gratitude or begging, both of which he doesn't do particularly well.

Instead, she leaves without waiting for anything, slipping out the door like a shadow. He tries to follow her, his curiosity getting the better of him, but she's already gone by the time he turns to look. She should be obvious in this setting—a girl all in black with purple streaks in her hair—but apparently she's just as good as blending in as he is. Better, even. It's startling because he's had years of training to get to this level, and he doubts that a civilian would have that kind of experience.

Stunned by the encounter, he shoves the money in his pocket, seeing no reason why he shouldn't hold onto the money. It's rare to come by this kind of cash and he doesn't squander what he does manage to find. Since getting a job would spell someone's doom, instead he's forced to gather what he can when he sees it. And Oliver doesn't come across fifteen dollars in a month, much less a single afternoon.

He hadn't thought about the guy being a pickpocket when he bumped into the old man in Chinatown who yelled at him. But then Oliver had gone in to pay for the first food items he had been able afford in two months, and his wallet was nowhere to be seen. If the girl hadn't paid for his purchases, he'd probably be starving instead of breaking into the small bag of chips she bought him. They taste delicious after so long without food, but yet he still wishes he could have a soda to go with it. But water is cheaper—especially when he carries plastic water bottles and fills them out of public restroom sinks.

Oliver used to spend a lot of time feeling sorry for himself because of his situation, but slowly he's come to accept that it's no one's fault but his own. The only thing he was good for after everything went to hell with the SCPD was getting his head smashed in, but he should have known better than to get his money by taking dives in fights. Of course Alexi Leonov had bet on the one fight that he didn't lose, the one where Famous Internet Sensation went down in one damn hit. Even though he'd been Bratva in another life, it didn't save him; Anatoli had apologized, but said it was their way. No one tried to help him, to help her stay alive.

And now, anyone he spends too much time with dies.

Truthfully, he hates Chinatown, the feel of it, the Triad lurking around every corner. But the Bratva won't travel here, into their enemies' home turf. It's probably the only reason the girl who gave him the money isn't dead right now. Leonov made him a promise—a promise to kill anyone around Oliver as punishment for the money he lost that night—and he knows the man will make good on it. The only relief he has is that Thea is living in Corto Maltese, away from Bratva influence and with a trusted guard named John Diggle watching her every move. Sometimes it's the only reason he sleeps at night.

He's so distracted by the random act of kindness and his own plight that he doesn't recognize the detective he bumps into until it's too late. "Watch where you're going, asshole!" Detective Cyrus Gold calls out, and Oliver ducks his head and corrects, trying to avoid confrontation. Sure, he could probably kill the man without missing a beat, but the need for violence has long since fizzled out of him.

Unfortunately for him, it's too late. Gold grabs his arm, tilting his head to look at him more fully. "Jesus Christ," the detective breathes, grabbing his arm more forcefully. "You're coming back to the car with me, pal." Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Oliver allows the man to lead him to the back of the police car, allowing himself to be thrown in the back seat. Climbing into the passenger seat next to his partner, Gold notes to Daily, "Look what the cat dragged in—Oliver Queen." He laughs like he's just won the lottery, probably taking pleasure from Oliver's pain. "Look at him."

"Look at him?" Daily laughs with a vindictive smirk. "How about the smell?" Both men laugh, and only then does Daily turn toward him. "Thought you'd know better than to drag your ass back to Starling City after everything that happened, you dumb son of a bitch. I hope you missed us, partner. Welcome back to the force." Then he turns back to Gold as he starts the squad car. "Call the boys—I think it's time for a reunion."

Gold does as he asks while they drive through Chinatown, back onto the streets of Starling City and deep into the Glades, where there are fewer wandering eyes. When they finally stop, it's in an abandoned parking garage next to a dilapidated building. Several men are waiting for him when Gold yanks him out of the car, a few of them he barely recognizes or has forgotten in the last three years or so. But there's one that stands out among the rest—a man with a dark goatee wearing a nice suit.

Predictably, it's Slade who is first to throw a punch. The other men circle him as it connects, watching Oliver stumble back. The man behind him—Grundy, he thinks—grabs him in a chokehold that Oliver could slip out of in seconds if he wanted to. "How's your day been, Ollie?" he sneers, taunting him with the childhood nickname that his sister still uses. It typically doesn't sound as patronizing out of her mouth.

"Started out lousy," he answers truthfully, "but it's starting to look up." Aside from being blindsided by the SCPD—definitely better than the Bratva, of course—it's true. It's not every day a mysterious, beautiful Goth girl shows up and lets him have her fifteen dollars in change.

Lin Mei, he absently remembers the shopkeeper calling her. It's a common name; there are probably a dozen more women carrying the same one around in that square block alone. But the store owner had seemed afraid of her for some reason that he didn't understand. And then she'd mentioned Chien Na Wei. Surely she hadn't meant the Triad leader, the one who rules Chinatown with an iron fist. Then there had been the mention of telling her that the shopkeeper's profits had dropped. What sort of weight would that have? There would be a record somewhere that would prove otherw—

Grundy tilts him sideways so that Jensen can gut punch him. Coughing and sucking in air, Oliver drops to the ground, watching them circle him, but not giving a damn about the pain. He deserves this beating—it's why he ended up taking dives in Jersey before everything else happened. Maybe if he gets the shit beat out of him enough, things might actually start to turn around.

"Oliver Queen," an Australian accent cuts into the mess. Slade—finally. Oliver nearly thought he was going to have to send out an invitation to get him to speak. "If it isn't Starling City's hardest cop." Slade leans over him. "You always could take a shot. But you know what your real talent is, Oliver? You're a uniter." The other men snicker at that, but he ignores it, focusing instead on Slade's words. "I never thought that I'd ever be on the same page as the Bratva about anything." He turns to one of his detectives. "Did you?"

"Not me," another man answers—Jensen, the former cop thinks is his name. "Dirty rat," he growls at his victim, punctuating it with a kick to the stomach. "I've been wanting to do this ever since you opened your goddamn mouth!" Then there's another kick, but Oliver barely feels it under all of the other pain.

"When we heard what Leonov did to you," Gold adds, "we had to laugh." He punches him in the face, hard enough that Oliver spits blood. Unfortunately, he manages to miss the target that Slade's shoe presents from this angle. He'll try again later. "I mean, we felt bad for Moira and Tommy, but, well, the Russians have their way of doing business." Gold tries to throw another punch, but Oliver blocks it. Though his ex-partner is begging for his arm to be broken, somehow the former cop resists the urge.

Daily pulls him off his feet by the collar of his hoodie, laughing in his face. "We couldn't believe you were back, asshole, but yet here you are," he taunts. Then he shakes Oliver by his collar a little. "It didn't make sense. Why wouldn't you disappear somewhere—like a cave on the goddamn moon? Why would you even think about coming home?"

The former cop doesn't let them rattle him, trying his best to seem unruffled by their taunting and their beatings. "I missed home," he answers sarcastically. Daily laughs for a moment before shoving him to the ground and landing a knee in his stomach.

Slade crouches over him, so close that Oliver could slit his throat with the knife in his pocket that they forgot to even look for. "You were one of us, Oliver," Slade says to him in a deceptively calm voice. "We were a team. A family. Brothers, every one of us." He spits in his face, and Oliver wipes it away with a mocking smile. "Then you threw us under the bus, sold us out. We were kings, you son of a bitch, but now we're just a bunch of goddamn slaves!" It's punctuated with another kick to the gut.

"We figured after all you did to your family, you'd want to die," Slade continues conversationally. "We have a pool going on how and when you're going to end it all—to give up and stop fighting. Grundy thinks bus, Gold thinks train, but me? I've got my money on suicide by cop." Then, as though it's nothing, he pulls his gun out of its holster and offers it to Oliver by the barrel. Little does he know that if he so desired, Oliver could drop them all before they knew what to do. It's just that he doesn't see any point now. "Come on, Queen—take it," Captain Wilson taunts with a sneer. "Take a shot. Your parents are waiting for you, kid."

There are many things Oliver allows to get the better of him, but Slade Wilson has never had that kind of satisfaction. The former cop sees no reason to give it to him now. Rising to his feet with a wince, he stares into the captain's face with a mocking smile. "You're wrong about my talent. I might be good at uniting people, but my real talent?" He smirks. "It's costing other people money. You ought to know that, Slade. You're going to lose that bet—unless you want to shoot me in the back." He turns, looking over his shoulder before walking away. "Wouldn't be your first time."

Then he leaves the police captain shouting at his back, allowing Oliver to smile his first genuine smile in years.