"Felicity?" The prisoner's tone borders on incredulous, but his voice is scratchy, as if unused in a long, long while.

The intruder releases his wrists in their ceasefire, gloved hands moving to pull the mask from her face. The long white hair comes off together with it, and a bright gold ponytail tumbles free of its confines.

"Oliver," she replies, not quite steadily. Her hand traces what he imagines must be another scar to add to his collection, on his left temple as an initiation to this hellhole. There are a couple more marks in less visible places, but she doesn't need to know. He feels her fingers trembling, like butterfly wings upon his skin.

The young man smiles, not disingenuously. As much as he conceals from his family, his oldest friends, he has never successfully lied to this woman. He does not know why. Instead he deadpans: "For the record, I'm not saying that I don't enjoy this type of thing. Under different circumstances."

"What? Oh!" Felicity scrambles off him, almost falling over in her hurry, a flustered movement more familiar than her earlier grace. As he picks himself up, she sights down the still-empty corridor, peers into the cell she had just broken him out of, fiddles with something in the cuff of her most interesting outfit. A few feet away, halfway to the elevator, two guards lie prone on the ground. Their weapons are drawn but slack in their hands, not a single shot fired. A ceiling fan spins lazily above. It does not do much for the oppressively enclosed space, the metallic scent of blood in the air.

Oliver wonders if the one responsible ever intends to look him in the face again.

She has no trouble fussing over his body, all but poking for ailments. He fends her off with impatience, and perhaps a twinge of vanity. "I'm fine, Felicity. What are you doing here? How are you here?"

She starts to glare, but quickly looks away. "I've already found Diggle, he's as well as can be expected. One level up. I told him to stay put."

Oliver's eyes narrow. She is clad in a soft leather bodysuit, matte black, topped off with black gloves and long black boots. A harness slings over her right shoulder to her upper left arm, upon which are attached a number of thingamabobs the purpose of which he could not decipher. Both forearms are protected by vambraces of some flexible material. Straps across her right thigh secure a stick-like object, and a more familiarly shaped gun.

He opens his mouth, but settles for raising his eyebrows instead.

Felicity is still busy not looking at him, instead putting her wig and mask back in place. The vambrace on her right arm is more cunning than it first appears, for a few touches has it lighting up into a computerized display. Oliver turns his head towards the exit, every sense alight with adrenaline. But there is only a profound stillness in their surroundings, like he has never noted even in the deepest nights.

"You're going to have to stay put too. I've, erm, disabled your captors, but we still need a cover story for your escape."

"Bad take-out?" Oliver offers, although his right hand flexes restlessly. He expects a Look like she has given every one of his cover stories, but Felicity is tapping away on her "wearable" computer, and white bangs shadow her face.

"I've made it look as much like a turf war as I can, and if anybody saw me with any luck they'll pin it on our friend in the Triad." She gestures at her camouflage locks. "Death, destruction, drama. And guns. Did I mention how much I hate guns? They're so... easy. Wham, bam, bye-bye ma'am."

Her device flashes several times. Oliver tries to peer over her shoulder, but it has apparently not been designed with sharing in mind.

"I'm placing an anonymous call to the police," Felicity continues without pause. "They should be here in nine point two minutes, and voila, one dramatic and newsworthy rescue of Oliver Queen, the most misfortune-prone upper society boy who has ever lived."

He resists to peek at her back, in case she has sprouted wings too. "Sounds like you have things all planned out."

"Yes I do, don't I? Planning is my middle name. When it's not Hacker. Or sometimes Megan, but that one's boring. Anyway, sorry Mr. Hood, but your job in this one is just to sit tight and look pretty enough to rescue. Well maybe not so pretty, wouldn't want the police to draw the wrong conclusions, heh. Not that you'd have any trouble with that right now. Not to say that you're not pretty, under different circumstances. That definitely did not come out ri-"

"Felicity. How long has it been since Diggle and I were...?" Oliver waves a hand at their surroundings.

His friend mumbles something that might be "a year", and for a heartbeat his mind blanks. Her hands wring skittishly together. She starts to pace.

"Hey." Oliver grabs her upper arms, maneuvering her to face him instead of everywhere else. He lifts her stubbornly down-turned chin with a finger.

The tears brimming in her eyes startle him immensely. And like most men, he is horrified when they increase to spilling over.

"Sorry, sorry! I'm just a little overexcited." Felicity wrenches from his grasp and dashes a hand across her face. "And this is not the most relaxing place for a heart-to-heart chat. Not that we ever have heart-to-hearts, I'd imagine that would be sort of like major surgery, open body cavities and all that. If I ever imagine such things. Which I don't. Anyway, I had a plan. Have a plan. We-"

"Felicity," he repeats firmly. "Felicity, look at me. You did good, understand?"

Her eyes slide away, but after a while she nods, and time ticks even without a clock. So Oliver goes obediently back to his cell, and tries not to stare as, after a brief hesitation, his rescuer shuts him back into the darkness. The light from the viewing slot falls in a paltry line upon the ground, in the exact position as the month before, and the month before. Another man might plaster himself upon that surface, seeking whatever last glimpse of freedom he can. The man also known as The Hood only takes a deep breath.

A shudder goes through the building, not so much heard as felt. The strip of light flickers and goes out.

And then there is only to wait, and wonder.

Soft yellow light suffuses the room, creating an atmosphere of warmth and intimacy despite its size. In the middle is a long rectangular table, a simple design consisting of mahogany on steel. The slender curves of metal seem insufficient to bear the two-inch thick slab of wood above. Yet that they do, plus the burden of candles in silver holders, glasses sparkling with wine, and several plates of food besides.

There are only two at this table, but their lighthearted conversation fills the space. At the head of the table sits an older woman, on her right a young man. Their dress is the informal elegance achieved only by a certain class of people who walk into designer boutiques as a matter of course. Yet they are speaking of mundane things: anecdotes from their respective days, the state of the small orchard out back. The young man is promised peach pies on his next visit.

A side door opens soundlessly, admitting a gray-haired man in a black suit. He waits next to the serving girl standing discretely at the back. Neither of the diners appear to notice. The young man recommends a book that he had just read. The woman looks thoughtfully at him, finishes cutting a piece of meat, chews with savor, and wipes her mouth daintily on a napkin.

"Oh don't be so formal, old friend," she says without so much as a glance over her shoulder. "Sit down, tell us what has transpired. Have a meal with the family for once, instead of that kitchen corner you're so very fond of."

The butler walks into view, but though she waves at the chair to her left, all he gives her is a look of longstanding patience. Then he inclines his head towards the young man.

"My grandson can hear whatever it is you have to tell. He is heir to our family's duties, after all."

The older man raises his eyebrows, but ignores the other after that and continues addressing the woman. "We just lost contact with Lasker Securities, ma'am."

"Oh? Was I not explicit enough about the Queen boy's... abilities?"

"It wasn't him, ma'am. From what we can tell, the attack came in from the ground floor. Impeccably planned, perfectly executed - almost like they had information from the inside. It was a massacre."

The young man goes a bit pale. His eyes flick to his grandmother, but she is calmly taking a sip of wine.

"And Queen?" she asks.

"We don't know. The place is crawling with police after some passerby called in about hearing shots. There was also a power surge that literally fried every piece of equipment on site. Perhaps from the backup generator."

The woman makes a noncommittal sound. "We will hear about Queen's fate soon enough. What information do we have about the attack itself?"

"Very little, I'm afraid. Whomever it was knew our systems, timed it right after one of the regular data dumps. Fifteen minutes to take down twenty-five combat specialists." The butler shakes his head, either in approval or disapproval. "We only caught wind when the next packet came. Truncated at ten seconds of the highest priority camera footage, and we're lucky to have that at all. My guess is that there was some unforeseen delay before they could overload the generator."

"Well, don't keep me in suspense! I know you have something up your sleeve when I see it."

The slightest curve threatens the line of the older man's mouth. He brings one hand from behind his back, revealing a tablet computer set to display a grainy photograph. On it one can just about make out a figure in black, caught in motion down a narrow corridor. The person is facing the camera, but a half-mask obscures its face. Long, pale hair is the clearest feature.

"This is the best image we have," the butler says.

"A woman," his employer pronounces decisively. "Was she alone?"

"That is unknown, but we have nobody else on tape."

"Hmmm. Young Master Queen did always have a soft spot for the ladies. I don't recall many ex-es with a soft spot for him though. Even less who fit this bill."

The butler retracts his arm with a formal nod. "I will have it looked into immediately, ma'am."

"I don't understand, grandmother." The young man, silent so far, interrupts. "From what you have told me, is Oliver Queen not exactly the type of person we could use in our undertaking?"

"Robert Queen's boy." The woman sighs. "For all that he has suffered, the poor dear, he is still very much naive. And rather single-minded in his pursuit of, shall we say, redemption."

She pats the young man maternally on his arm. "No, dear, I'm afraid that Oliver Queen is not ready to listen, much less act as this nation needs, right now."

"But his vigilante work, wouldn't that at least have helped regulate the fallout from the Glades?"

"That may be, but the Hood is not what this city needs right now either. Not yet. Remember, child, that to heal a surgeon must often first harm."

Her grandson nods, though perhaps still not with full understanding. "Is he a danger to the plan, then? Will you have him recaptured?"

The woman's face crinkles into a smile. "Now now, I'm hardly the last word in such decisions. Still, I think we will let Oliver Queen be, for now. Miss Friday's timing is somewhat... inconvenient, but it's nothing a few adjustments can't handle."

She picks up her fork, spears a perfectly red cherry tomato. "We will simply have to move up the schedule."