Title: User Interface
Word Count: 4346

Notes: This was originally posted in A Universe of Endless Possibilties as part of a collab (under MaskedTwinkie Productions here on FFN), but since I did another thing in this universe, I wanted to post it separately as a placeholder. I did make a few minor formatting edits, but beyond that, it's the same thing you saw three years ago.

Sorry if you were disappointed. Part 2 of this universe should be up soon, and it is new.

Thank you so much for reading, my dears! :)

Felicity groans as she slides under the small, ancient ship in the hangar again, wondering why she keeps repairing the damn thing. Then she remembers it's because the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Singh, keep bringing it in, instead of buying a new starship with the fortune they probably have stashed under their mattress. It's a waste of time because the ship is a junker, and all the local mechanics have started to bow out because it's not worth the money they're putting into it. But, so long as the Singhs can keep bringing in the cash (who doesn't use credit chips these days?), she'll do whatever they want to it.

Sighing, she prepares for the worst part, ensuring that the hangar bay doors are closed before she pulls the panel away from the back of her neck, exposing the junction where her control panel connects with her spinal cord and brain. Nimble titanium fingers in work gloves find the loose interface wire with practiced ease, and she connects it to the ship's control system.

It's one of the most horrible things she ever does, interfacing with a starship. They're bulky and... empty, as though no creative thought is allowed when one is every inch of a massive ship. The new ones aren't much better about it, but, then again, most mechanics can't interface with a ship. They have robots for that, but Felicity finds them more than a little creepy—and expensive. She's not about to shell out six thousand clocks on a robot when she can do the same thing. Screw uncomfortable; she works too hard for less than Earthen Union pay standards to earn her Labor Hour Credits—commonly called "clocks"—and she's not going to blow her savings unless she has to.

She tries to start the ship, and it stalls out immediately. She can see the gauges in her own user interface on the left side of her vision, and it's clear by the readings that the starting mechanism is done for. Not wanting to waste any more time on it, she reaches up and yanks out the wire, severing the connection without waiting for the connection to sever automatically. It makes her dizzy afterward, as always, but at least she doesn't have to spend another second in the brain of the ship.

After clarity returns, she takes a moment to pull up the repair ticket details on her retina display. In the Initial Exam section, she quickly types with nothing more than her own thoughts, Starter mechanism failure, most likely electrical: stalls out when converter pressure isn't evenly applied, i.e. after ignition. Wires may be faulty. Converter possibly damaged and/or needs repair. Check ignition mechanism for shorted circuits. She drops down a line before adding, Initial recommendation: Replace starship with newer model. Ship has repeated history of faulty wiring, system malfunction, and part repair/replacement. Contact owner before further work is performed. She adds her initials to the end before she syncs the information with the two computers that matter—the records system in the lobby and her assistant's.

She makes sure her panel is closed properly before using the rollerboard to slide out, and she finds Roy standing there with eyes on his portcom, a small touchscreen device he's never seen without, where he's most likely looking at the details she just synced with him. "Hey, boss," he says without preamble, "we've got a few new jobs sitting in the lobby."

Roy is the only human she's ever met who doesn't mind working for a cyborg, and he doesn't seem to treat her any differently than any human. Felicity thinks it might have something to do with the cyborg who used his titanium arm to save Roy's life, but it could be because he's just a good kid, even if he tries to pretend otherwise. She often acts like she's not fond of him, but his rare smiles are contagious and those amber eyes are always filled with excitement when she tells him more about the business.

"I've told you a thousand times not to call me 'boss,'" she replies instantly. She's not anyone's boss; she's a cyborg at the bottom of society's totem pole. "For God's sake, call me Felicity or Smoak or something-hell, I'd even settle for 'Blondie' at this point."

He snorts at that, but doesn't reply to it. But she knows he hears her because his next question is, "So, call the Singhs, Blondie?" He offers her a rare grin, extending a hand to help her up from the rollerboard. It's a kind of chivalry she's unfamiliar with; no one dares touch a cyborg. Apparently, growing titanium parts is contagious—or, at least, the general populace seems to think so.

She takes the offer, and it's only afterward that she realizes she used her cyborg hand to take his. She expects him to let go immediately, but he doesn't seem to think about it. "Thanks," she mutters, then, just for fun, she wipes her gloves on his red hoodie, adding another grease stain to the collection, earning herself a chuckle. "Yeah, call the Singhs and tell them this thing"—she pats her right, human hand against it twice—"is shot to shit. They'll want me to repair it anyway, but try to convince them that I strongly recommend that they just replace it. They're thirty-five hundred clocks used, and it will probably cost around sixty-five hundred to fix it. It's time to put the old girl out of her misery."

Roy shrugs. "I'll do my best," he answers, starting to walk back toward the office. He turns midstep. "Oh, and the next one is someone here to see you about a portcom problem."

"What kind of problem?" she asks, pulling her gloves off so that she can redo her falling ponytail. "Did you try hitting it against the desk? That fixes most glitches."

She switches out her hangar glasses for her office pair, frowning as her eyes adjust to the better vision afforded to her by the second pair. She has one pair reserved for mechanic work in the hangar because they get mangled fast otherwise. She probably could pay for surgery for vision correction-if she was fully human. But, as a cyborg, no one will touch her for any elective surgeries. Truthfully, they'd probably let her die on the table for any emergency ones, too.

"The dude won't talk to me," Roy answers with a shrug. "I introduced myself, and he said he'd only speak to Mr. Smoak." She unzips the mechanic's jumpsuit and shrugs out of it, and Roy's eyes focus on the long-sleeved purple henley underneath-the one she likes to wear under the jumpsuit because it clings so tightly that it doesn't bunch up. Her dress pants aren't so lucky, but the wrinkles pull out easily. "He's gonna be surprised when he sees you."

Roy seems to think it's funny that everyone automatically thinks she's male and in her sixties, but she doesn't find it so amusing. Still, Felicity enjoys the ability to bask in the anonymity of the shop; everyone thinks she's just some poor cyborg slave working for her master as an office temp. That's why she started wearing dress clothes under her jumpsuit—she earns fewer odd looks that way. And, well, if she has a smear of grease across her face every now and again, everyone just assumes she's good for a quick lay against a starship.

After all, she is just another cyborg slave.

"I hired you to handle the office drivel, Roy," she chides him for the umpteenth time. "That includes unruly customers who don't want to answer to a nineteen-year-old mechanic." She crosses her arms, her titanium left hand gleaming as if to reinforce her next point: "No one wants to listen to a twenty-five-year-old, female, cyborg mechanic and tech expert." She puts her hand on his shoulder, but she makes sure it's her right hand, the one that actually has turquoise fingernails. "Starling Repair is the best repair shop in this city, and people will keep coming back, even if we piss them off. They can't afford to do business elsewhere. We know it and they know it. If anyone gives you grief, tell them to turn on their simulators and fly a kite."

He chuckles. "Fair enough, Blondie," he says, and she thinks she might have gotten through to him this time. "I'll go call the Singhs, if you'll take on Mr. Mysterio in the lobby."

She blinks twice, trying to refrain from rolling her eyes so soon after regaining control from the ship. "Please tell me that's not the name he gave you."

Roy frowns. "He didn't give me anything," he repeats. "I just thought it was fitting—he has his hood pulled over his face like he's the Arrow or something." He snorts derisively before leaving to find the nearest phone.

Felicity decides it's time to leave herself, moving through the hangar to the office. The mention of Starling City's underdog hero makes her smile a little; maybe she's rooting for the only guy who is fighting the corruption in the city. Whether he knows it or not, most of the bad guys he's gone after have owned cyborgs, and, when their "owner" is killed or imprisoned, those poor souls are released from their lives of servitude according to the law. Of course they're in litigation, since no human wants a free cyborg running around, but Felicity thinks it will be a step forward if she's not the only free cyborg in Starling any longer.

The thought leaves her as she walks into the crowded lobby, with multiple clients lined up with their various devices and machines. All of them, save for one, focus on her as soon as she enters, staring at her proudly uncovered cyborg hand. She's fairly certain her control panel door isn't hidden by her ponytail, but she doesn't see the need to hide what she is here. She always finds it interesting how humans made her this way as a child, but yet they seem embarrassed by her. Vaguely, she wonders if her father would have saved her life with his technology if he'd known what a pariah it would make her. Maybe he would have let her die instead.

Their newest client, the one who doesn't acknowledge her, is unmistakable in the gray hoodie, and Felicity has no doubts that this schmuck is the one Roy has had trouble with. That's strike one already against him. "Sir?" she calls brightly to him, in her best human-services voice.

She watches him look up, watches as his eyes meet hers, then slide down to the metallic gleam of her left hand, then fall on her face again. Her retina display flashes in the left corner, unhelpfully naming the client she was able to identify moments ago on her own. "I'm supposed to direct you to our tech support office."

He doesn't say a word, but he does follow her back to her office. She waves to a chair in front of her desk, and he sits. "When will Mr. Smoak be in?" he asks quietly, his voice soft and clear.

She sits down on the opposite side of the desk. "I'm Felicity Smoak, and this is my repair shop." She clasps her hands together, not even noticing the cold metal anymore. She's had a lifetime to adjust to her... enhancements, and they don't bother her nearly as much as they seem to bother humans.

His eyes flick up to her, appraising her in a new light. He studies her with a level of intelligence she doesn't expect from him, and, though his eyes seem to tilt to her metal hand every now and again, he doesn't exactly seem disturbed by it. "I'm Oliver Queen," he says, after he pulls back the gray hood of his jacket.

She rolls her eyes. "It doesn't take my retina display to figure that one out," she replies dryly, then frowns because she should not have said that. Only the worst reconstruction cases have retina displays and computers in their brains, and that's far more personal information than she wants in the hands of Oliver Queen. She rushes on to say, "Your pretty face has been plastered all over the news feeds since you came back."

That doesn't help her case, so she waves a hand. "Well, 'pretty' is probably the wrong word—probably something along the lines of 'handsome,' I guess." She watches a smile turn up the corners of his mouth and she wishes that a starliner would come along and beam her up. "I mean, not that I'm calling you handsome. I just think it's a more masculine word for that. Not that I'm saying you're not handsome, either. I'm just going to remain ambivalent on the whole thing." She runs a hand over her forehead. "And I'm pretty sure you didn't come down here to listen to me babble. Which will end. Soon." She closes her eyes as she counts, "Three... two... one." She lets out a deep sigh and opens her eyes to find a very amused Oliver Queen sitting in front of her. But, then again, he's probably used to women falling all over themselves around him.

She finds herself very glad that the computer part of her brain has already initiated cooldown so that she doesn't blush. They didn't want her human functions damaging the machinery, so she doesn't even have blushing anymore. "So," she adds, clearing her throat, "what can I do for you, Mr. Queen?"

"Oliver," he corrects instantly, a bit of a chuckle in his voice as he flashes her a particularly loaded, charming smile. "Mr. Queen was my father."

"I remember," she replies dryly, thinking of how her mother sold the cyborg technology to Queen Consolidated after her father died. She remembers being paraded in like a freak so they could observe the full extent of her cyber-replacements, and she remembers Robert Queen asking questions as though she was a specimen in a jar and not an actual person. Nineteen years later, though, she's become quite familiar with that look. "What can I do for you, Oliver?" she repeats.

He pulls out the remnants of what might have been a portcom at some point, holding it out to her. When she reaches for it with her left hand, not thinking about the prosthetics she's had a lifetime to get used to, and he drops it on the desk immediately. She frowns, rolling her eyes, but they widen as she recognizes the burns in its screen. "These look like laser pistol burns." She looks up at him, the question probably written all over her face, though she voices it anyway. "What happened to this poor thing?"

"I found this portable computer"—he seems hesitant of the wording, and Felicity realizes he was trying to survive in the North China Sea when portcoms became a thing—"on the street, and I wanted to return it to its owner." He hesitates. "But then I saw the damage, and I thought I should make sure there's nothing on it that breaks the Data Transmittal Act first." He flashes her a genuinely false smile that must fool everyone else, judging by the confidence underneath it. "The police and I don't exactly get along as it is."

She understands his concerns; they've really cracked down about what gets passed around the 'Net, and anything suspicious means jail first—ask questions later. No weaponry information, no blueprints, no hacking tips, no porn, and no online prostitution. Still, she raises an eyebrow at him. "And you found this on a walk?" she asks incredulously. She's almost certain his story is crap, but it's too early to call him on it.

He offers her another ridiculously charming smile, this one just as insincere as the last. "I made a turn into a bad neighborhood," he offers, and she's a little disappointed because it's not even a good lie.

She doesn't even dignify that with a response, turning her head to the side with a sigh. It's fine if he wants to sell her bullshit, but that doesn't mean she's buying. It earns her a genuine smile this time, and she takes that as victory. She frowns. "You know," she answers finally, "if you wanted to know what was on this thing, all you had to do was ask. I don't have to turn in any questionable material against the Act so long as you don't directly say this belongs to you."

She plugs it into the portcom dock on her desk so that she can analyze the information on the working screen, but she knows it would be faster if she actually connected it to her own interface. Still, she's already been stared at like a freak enough for one day, so she decides to do it the old-fashioned way.

Oliver seems to be in a conversational mood. "Your 'Net ad is a little misleading," he starts casually. "Starling Repair Shop, owned and operated by one F. Smoak—'Keeping Starling's technology and equipment running for forty years.'" She's surprised he's able to quote the ad correctly without reading it from the portcom.

She looks at him. "It may be misleading," she admits as she waits for the analyzer to read off the contents, "but it's true. Starling Repair has been in business since the days of personal computers." She shrugs. "I just haven't always been the one running it."

She starts to say something more, but then she realizes she doesn't owe Oliver Queen a damn thing. He doesn't need to know that she's been working here since she was six, fresh out of her cybernetic operation and desperately in need of something to think about other than the excruciating pain. And he won't care that it was her grandfather who placed an early model tabscreen in front of her face and showed her how to fix it.

Fortunately, the analyzer dings, and she motions to the stationary screen on her desk. "Roll your chair over and we'll look at this," she says finally. He does as she asks, his arm knocking against hers as he leans to look at the screen on the opposite corner of her desk. He immediately draws back, staring down at the metal appendage, and it frays the last of Felicity's nerves. "Oh, for God's sake," she snaps, and wide eyes meet hers. "It's a titanium-interface limb, not a porcupine. It's not going to hurt you to touch it."

It takes him a moment of too-intense staring to respond. "That's not why I've been careful," he says slowly. He stops for a moment before continuing, "We have an emergency clean room at the house, just in case anyone needs an emergency operation after hours. Most of the patients"—she likes the way he avoids the word "cyborg" with practiced ease—"don't want their cybernetics touched."

Her eyes widen a little as she processes their interaction in a new light. His actions, which she had previously construed as disgust for her condition, were a sign of respect. She isn't quite sure what to do with that information; perhaps it's been too long since she's been respected by anyone. "Sorry," she says quietly, and, louder, adds, "and thank you. But I've been this way a long time. It doesn't bother me."

His arms slides against hers as he looks at the screen, in silent acceptance of her apology while not prying further. "So, what is this?" he asks, pointing to a small, blue icon next to a string of code.

She touches it, and it pulls up a set of transferred blueprints. "Looks like blueprints. And this breaks the Data Transmittal Act," she answers, "so it's a good thing you found this on the street." She hopes her emphasis indicates she's still not buying it, and it earns her a breathy sound akin to a chuckle.

"Do you know what of?" is his next question, and it confirms what she already knows to be the truth. He's clearly taken this from someone on the seedier side of the law; any honest citizen would have already started begging her to turn it into the police.

She looks between him and the screen, motioning between them in confusion. How could he not know this building? "This is the Exchange Building." It earns her a blank look. "This is where the Unidac Industries auction is supposed to take place tonight." Her eyebrows furrow together. "You should already know this—Dr. Steele and Queen Consolidated are competing for the company." She frowns and then corrects herself, "Well, for the intellectual property rights. Unidac produced the old tabscreens, and rumor is that they've come up with a better, competitive cybernetic program that they were about to unveil—before they went bust, anyway." She looks back at the display. "It's a good idea—take over the competition. This belongs to another of the competitors."

"Floyd Lawton," he answers quickly, and Felicity draws a blank at the name, though it does make her smile. Clearly the truth is optional in Oliver Queen's world.

"No, Warren Patel," she corrects, turning back to him. "My guess is that your friend Lawton is working for Mr. Patel." She crosses her arms. "You should turn this into the police before you get caught with it."

Something flickers in his expression. "I think that's good advice," he agrees easily, then holds out his hand. "Thank you, Felicity."

She wants to say something snarky on the spot, remind him that she didn't give him permission to use her first name, but she lets it go because respect is a very rare thing in her world. "You're welcome, Oliver," she responds as she shakes his hand. She hands him the portcom, and he tucks it back into his jacket.

He pulls out his own portcom, typing a few numbers into the touch screen. "I trust that's an acceptable payment?" he asks, waiting as if he wants her to pull up the details on the analyzer, of all things. Clearly technology isn't his thing.

Instead, she pulls account information up on her retina display, and her eyes widen as she sees the amount. "Mother of Google, that's ridiculous—even I'm not worth that much," she says instantly, then transfers half of it back. "There. Now I'm suitably overpaid."

He checks the screen again, blinking twice in surprise as he reads the transfer. He looks up at her. "How did you...?" He trails off, unsure of how to continue.

She points to her left eye. "Retina display," she answers, and he doesn't seem to understand the significance. "It's like having a portcom in my head."

He nods once, unsure of what to say, and she doesn't blame him; most cyborgs aren't so honest about their specifications. His portcom dings, and he frowns at the screen for a moment before looking back at her. "Are you working tonight?" he asks suddenly. She's immediately on edge, not sure of where this is going, and he seems to understand her hesitance. With a smile, he adds, "QC's chief technologist just cancelled for the auction tonight—apparently he has a horrible case of food poisoning. And Walter is going to need someone to explain the patents up for grabs tonight." He shrugs at her skepticism. "He asked if I knew anyone."

She thinks about it a moment, then pulls up comparative figures for the month's profits, noticing that she's down a little this month. After-hours work costs aren't cheap, and she could use the extra boost in income if she's going to pay herself this month. "It won't come cheap," she warns, "but I don't have any other obligations tonight."

He types into his portcom, and it chimes back immediately. "Walter says money is no object," he answers, not that it surprises her. Oliver looks up. "It's a black tie affair. Where can the hoverlimo pick you up?" She balks and he chuckles. "Queen Consolidated always arrives together—something about a show of solidarity."

"Here is fine," she says immediately, knowing she'd rather be in her comfort zone, amongst her hangar full of damaged ships and hallways full of malfunctioning robots.

He offers her a genuine smile that immediately makes her wary, as though he's just roped her into something more than she expected. He pockets his portcom and pulls his hood over his head. "See you at seven, then," he adds before easing out the door, leaving Felicity in a whirlwind of a stupor.

That's where Roy finds her. "Hey, I called the Singhs and—" He stops, taking in her expression. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," she answers, then turns her frustration on him. "Why didn't you tell me that Oliver Queen was sitting in my lobby?"

He looks just as surprised as she was. "You know I don't follow any of the feeds on stars that are over twenty-five or male," he answers immediately. "The only Queen I know about is Thea." It seems to sink in then, and he points with his stylus toward the lobby, over his shoulder. "Really? That was Oliver Queen?" He shakes his head. "Don't get why he's such a heartthrob, then. Kinda seemed creepy to me." He looks at her. "But I guess it went well for you."

"Yeah, you could say that," she says, a little breathlessly. "He just landed me an after-hours job with Walter Steele—apparently they're missing a techie for tonight's auction." She frowns. "Wait, how did you know it went well?"

Roy shrugs. "Couldn't have been a bad guy if he didn't point out that giant grease smear across your forehead."