Title: System Reboot
Word Count: 7883

Notes: GUYS I AM STOKED RIGHT NOW. I cannot begin to describe how happy I am to be sharing this. I have had the idea for this fic for the last three years and now it's finally worked its way out of my head and onto the Internet. I'll let y'all decide how it turned out. :)

I can't say it enough: I have the best readers on the planet. Thank you so much for all your support, even when I'm a disaster responding to reviews. (So basically it's just a Monday with Masque.) I always love to hear from you, but I'm glad to know you took the time to read it. :)

As she takes in the entrance hall of the Queen home, Felicity turns a circle, staring up at the high ceilings and grand staircase. Oliver fights the urge to laugh at her expression; he expected her to be uncomfortable, but instead she seems fascinated, staring as though she's never seen an oak staircase in her life. Then again, most staircases have been replaced with elevators and escalators in the five years he's been away. Maybe she hasn't.

He takes a moment to study her, how different she looks under proper lighting, instead of the dim, flickering glow of blue neon in her Glades repair shop. The comparison isn't fair: here, she has secrets. Instead of her normal ponytail, her hair is long to hide the panel at the back of her neck. Her purple shirt is long-sleeved, and her left hand is covered by a tech glove that assists her retina display. The Felicity he sees at the repair shop proudly displays her modifications, and if anyone is uncomfortable, it's the fault of their own prejudice. Here, she's at the mercy of the same intolerance she scoffs at on a daily basis.

The thought makes the smile slip from Oliver's face.

After a few more moments of gawking, she finally admits, "This is the first and last time I do a house call for you, Oliver."

This time he can't stop the laugh from bubbling over. In the last two months, she's commented about how he stares at the shop like he's never seen electronics before. Now she's staring at his home like she's never seen nineteenth-century architecture before. "How do you think I feel at your place?" he teases.

A smile plays on Felicity's lips, the kind that comes just before she jabs at him with sarcastic words. "I think you seem pretty comfortable at my place," she retorts. She flips a hand in the air—her left, the gloved one. "It feels like you're there every other day. I don't even have a chance to miss you."

Oliver starts to pop off a remark, but it comes out as, "Are you saying you would miss me?" The grin on his face widens, probably goofy and absurd. Even though he's been away for five years, sometimes he feels as though no one wanted him back. His mother doesn't know what to do with him. Thea doesn't know how to talk to him. His father's best friend is now his stepdad. Every once in a while, when he's gone a few days on vigilante business, it's as though they don't notice. It's nice to think someone would.

"No," she blurts quickly—too quickly. Felicity turns away, scrunching her nose as she stares down at the carpet. After a few months, he's learned to equate that with embarrassment. Felicity doesn't ever really blush. They share a smile as she adds, "But if that works for you, go with it." Before he can dwell on it too much, she motions to the hall. "So where is this robot of Thea's? I left Roy with the shop, and I need to get back before it goes up in flames."

Taking the subject change for what it is, Oliver motions up the stairs. "Follow me," he replies. As she falls into step beside him, he adds, "You should lighten up on Roy. He's a good kid."

There aren't many people out there who would pass information on targets to the vigilante, but Roy Harper is one of his best sources. Normally Oliver likes to thoroughly vet his partners, but Roy had been a chance discovery one night when he'd been bleeding out on the street. Roy just threw Oliver's arm over his shoulder, took him to a run-down house in the Glades, and called in a medical assistant with a gleaming metal hand to patch up the gaping hole in his side.

It turns out that his attack on Starling City's elite and corrupt has aided the cyborg population most of all.

Oliver can't find it in himself to be sorry about that.

Felicity scoffs before stating, "It's funny you think highly of him because Roy does not like you." Oliver tilts his head to the side. "He thinks you're just a spoiled rich kid who likes to tell his friends he's hanging out in the Glades with a cyborg." Before he can protest, she shrugs. "He's entitled to his opinion. I can't force him to be right."

With a smile Oliver replies, "Maybe you and I aren't as different as he thinks." Felicity is a survivor. What she endured to lose two limbs is still a mystery to him, but he's never met a cyborg who couldn't have survived Lian Yu five times over. Not to mention that they both have sides of themselves they feel the need to bury around others. The only difference is that hers is nothing to be ashamed of.

She only arches an eyebrow at him as he pushes open the door to the tech storage room. "I think you should try that argument again when we're not in your mansion, Oliver," Felicity answers with a roll of her eyes. She turns to the broken-down bot with the glossy finish against one wall. "Did Thea tell you what it was doing?"

And she's gone again—lost in her tech and her work. At first Oliver thought she worked non-stop because she's paid so little for her work—less than half of what her competitors charge, when she's twice as good—but Oliver is starting to think it's because she enjoys it. "She says she charges it but it lasts about thirty minutes before it powers down. She bought a new battery and it still does the same thing."

By the time he finishes speaking, Felicity already has the chest panel of the robot open, staring at it. "This model is bad about shorting out," she mutters to herself as she pushes her sleeves above her elbows. She slips a hand through the tangle of wires at the bottom. "Wires aren't black, and the motherboard isn't fried. All of the modification chips are brand name—third-party software can cause a malfunction sometimes." As she stares at it for a few more minutes, Oliver slides a stool over so she doesn't have to bend down to stare at the robot. She doesn't seem to notice when he places her on it.

For not the first time, Oliver is glad she doesn't question his movements to and from her shop. If she ever decided to investigate him, she'd know he was the Arrow within the day. Felicity Smoak is relentless with a mystery: she only stops when it's solved.

After about thirty minutes of muttering to herself about things that Oliver doesn't understand, he sits down in the floor as she sighs. "Damn it," Felicity growls. Turning to him, she says in a defeated tone, "I'll have to plug into it and run diagnostics. I hate doing that."

"Do you have a diagnostics robot? I could go back and get it for you," he offers.

"I am the diagnostics robot," Felicity replies. "I'm not going to spend money on equipment when I can do the same job." She makes a face. "It just… feels weird. And I don't like doing it when I suspect a short in the system."

"You could bill it out as part of the costs for this," Oliver suggests carefully.

Her eyebrows have already narrowed before he can finish. "I'm doing this for Thea, Oliver. She's paying for it. I am not stealing six thousand clocks from a friend just because I don't like interfacing with robotic systems." She motions to the open door. "Could you…?" Her voice is so small that he leans in to hear her. Stronger, she asks, "Could you shut the door? I… don't want anyone to walk in on this."

After doing as she requested, Oliver slides back down to the floor. Felicity tilts her head as she looks at him. "I meant you should be on the other side of it," she clarifies, her voice sharp.

Though he has to admit the words sting, he pushes it back. Ever since day one, she's been trying to warn him away from her cyborg parts, as if she's waiting for him to turn just as prejudiced and cruel as most of the population—as his mother, if he's being honest. He doesn't know how to tell her that isn't going to happen.

It manages to come out as, "I'm not leaving you, Felicity." He's not leaving her alone while connecting to a broken robot, nor is he going to back out of their friendship any time soon. Only an idiot would fail to notice that Felicity Smoak is more than just a few wires and metal parts. She doesn't care that his last name is Queen. It earns him no special favors, and it isn't the reason she's elected to be his friend. She just genuinely likes him because he's him. It's unfamiliar but not unpleasant.

Oliver isn't going to let that go without a fight.

The look on her face as she contemplates his words is priceless. In the two months he's known her, she's never been speechless, but when her mouth opens now, nothing comes out. He half expects her to argue—if there's anything she's good at, it's winning an argument—but instead, her face softens as she gives him a few nods. "Thank you," she finally replies.

When Oliver lifts a shoulder to dismiss the strange feeling in the pit of his stomach, she places her hand on top of his. "I mean it, Oliver." She shakes her head. "I keep forgetting you're different." Laughing to herself, she explains, "The people who don't hate what I am are fascinated by the science of it." Something dark goes through her expression, and suddenly Oliver wants names of everyone who ever hurt her. Maybe they need a visit from the Arrow, and maybe he needs some target practice. "They're both equally dangerous." She pokes him in the shoulder with a titanium index finger. "You, however, are an entirely different kind of dangerous."

"You really have no idea," he replies. Maybe one day he'll tell her the truth of it.

For now, she laughs, though Oliver doesn't like the look on her face—like he's just become a puzzle she needs to solve. But for now, she has a malfunctioning robot to keep her mind of his cryptic remarks. Felicity studies it with a frown for a moment longer, before sighing in frustration.

With deft fingers, she reaches for the ponytail holder around her wrist, twisting her hair into a messy bun that reveals the panel in the back of her neck. She opens it with deft fingers, and a mass of wires fall out. Reaching for reach in turn, she follows them down to the ends before selecting an orange one. After pulling it from the tangle of multicolored connectors, she shoves it into a port in the robot's chest.

And then she collapses.

"Felicity!" he blurts. Oliver's heart stops when she crumples on the stool, but then he gathers himself enough to catch her and lay her on the floor. He's never seen anyone interface with a robot before. Maybe this is normal for her. Maybe her circuitry can't power her system and the robot at the same time. Suddenly he wishes he had asked, instead of staring over her body sprawled across the floor.

Two seconds later, he realizes she isn't breathing.

While Oliver may not be an expert in cybernetics or cyborgs, he knows that can't be anything good. His fingers reach for a pulse as he calls gently, "Felicity?" No response. No pulse, either. "No, no," he whispers to himself. He's lost a lot of people in the last five years, but he is not losing Felicity Smoak. "I need you to be okay." He rips the orange cord from the robot, silently begging for a sign that she's going to be fine. When it doesn't come, he wracks his brain for alternatives.

Walter. The thought comes to him in an instant; Walter is working from home today, and this is his field of expertise. He integrates cybernetic systems into biological tissues for a living. Oliver glances down at Felicity, lying face down on the floor. None of that means a damn thing if she isn't breathing—by the time he gets her to a clean room, it'll be too late for her biological tissues. Her brain won't survive that long without oxygen.

He glares at the robot for a moment. If it shorted her cybernetic systems, then maybe he can jolt them some other way. When his eyes fall on the electrical outlet in the wall, he immediately scrambles toward Felicity's control panel, digging through the tangle of wires for the red one. Red's the power, Slade had once told him on the island, about his own modifications. Red is always power. Without red, you're dead. Easy to remember.

With shaking fingers, Oliver pulls the black cap of the end of the red wire, ignoring the white exclamation point of warning on it. He hesitates only for a brief second: this might kill her, but if she doesn't start breathing soon, she definitely won't survive. Any odds of survival are better than the zero she has right now.

After a brief prayer to no one and everyone, he shoves the cable into the socket.

The reaction is instant. Felicity jerks all at once, and he can hear the processor's fan whirring in her control panel. It's another heartbeat before she inhales. He holds his breath until she releases hers, then checks for a pulse again. This time it's there. She's alive. For now.

Rising to his feet, Oliver bends to scoop her up in his arms. She wouldn't appreciate the scene—her metal arm exposed and a colorful knot of tangled wires dangling from her skull—but there are only a few people in the house. Besides, he'd rather have her angry with him than dead. Despite that, he pulls the elastic from her hair in an attempt to hide the wires hanging from her open panel.

Just before he reaches for the door, it springs open. A wide-eyed Diggle stands on the other side, and it takes Oliver a moment to remember he yelled earlier. Digg, his alert partner in crime, no doubt came to investigate. "Oliver, I—"

Oliver doesn't care what he's going to say. "I need you to go get Walter," he instructs. "Tell him it's an emergency and to meet me in the clean room. He's probably in his study in the east wing of the house." He takes a step forward, but stops. "And I need you to move so I can get her there."

Diggle freezes in place, staring at Felicity as if for the first time. Her titanium arm, exposed from the elbow down, hangs limp from her shoulder on proud display. Even loose, her blonde hair doesn't hide the multicolored cables, instead mixing with them. The sharp edges on her open panel door bite into Oliver's arm as it flaps open.

A second after the light dawns across his face, Digg's features twist into a grim expression. After nodding several times, he takes off down the hall in the direction of the study. In six months of working together on vigilante business, Oliver has never been so thankful for his partner's ability to reason out a situation, shove his emotions aside, and spring into action. After staring after him a moment, the vigilante breaks into a run.

He runs like he never did on Lian Yu, even when he was trying to survive and standing still meant certain death. Oliver has always been quick on his feet, but now he pushes himself harder than before. This isn't just survival. This is Felicity—Felicity, who represents all that's good and right in the world. She's survived so much, and he is not going to lose her here. Not now, not after he just found her.

The white swinging door has never looked so good when he reaches it. Oliver releases a sigh before shoving through it with his shoulder. Though he's never liked the sterile rooms used for cybernetic surgeries, today the plain white walls he thought were soulless seem like a gift. He drapes her across the padded table in the room, careful to twist her onto her stomach the way he's seen cybernetic surgeons do a thousand times.

His hand is tracing shapes into her back when Walter bursts through the door, with Diggle on his heels. The bodyguard only nods once at Oliver before stepping outside, but Walter moves to a box of sterile gloves on the counter. He opens a pack before pulling over the monitor and placing leads to Felicity's stomach. "Could you pull her hair away for me, please?" is all he asks.

Carefully pulling her hair through the ponytail holder, Oliver manages to gather it all into a bun. Years of Speedy demanding he do her hair finally paid off for something. Even though the monitor insists she's breathing at a normal rate, he holds his fingers under Felicity's nose, then presses them to her throat. The monitor is at least accurate.

Expression wary, Walter turns to him. "I'm sorry, Oliver, but I have to ask: who owns her cybernetics? I don't like the laws any more than you do, but legally, I can't make changes to her systems without the permission of the owner."

"Felicity owns the rights to her own modifications," Oliver spits, glaring down at the table. "She's free."

"At least she owns the rights to her own body," Walter replies, moving to the sink to wash his hands. "It's a sad state, but that makes her more fortunate than most." Glancing over his shoulder, the surgeon asks with a slight smile, "Do you remember how to prepare a sterile surgical pack for me, Oliver?"

Sliding to the counter as though he's done it all his life, Oliver places a pack on the instrument stand and breaks the tape without touching the sterile contents. It's been a long time since he's done this, but when he was fifteen and Walter was just his godfather, he spent a lot of time in this room helping to prepare for emergency cybernetic surgeries. "I think so," is all he replies. "You might want to check it."

As he pulls on the sterile gloves, Walter replies, "I always do. I trust your abilities, Oliver, but ultimately I'm responsible for my patients, down to the sterility of the instruments I use." As Oliver pulls Felicity's hair away from her panel, his stepfather asks, "Can you tell me what caused this?" Just like always, he never raises his voice, never hurries. If ever anyone was meant to be a surgeon, it was Walter Steele: always graceful under pressure.

Finally Oliver takes a deep breath. Something about Walter's tone, calm and collected, makes a calm wash over him. "Felicity came by to work on Thea's robot," Oliver explains slowly, as Walter reaches for the sterile drape in the pack. "She suspected a short but couldn't find anything wrong, so she connected her orange cable to it." Carefully sliding her glasses from her face and folding them on the counter, he adds, "She just collapsed—no pulse, not breathing."

He prepares another lie to someone in his family. At least he's getting good with the practice. "I remember you saying that the red wire was the main power line, so I thought maybe I could restart it by giving it a jolt." Oliver shifts in place before confessing, "I stuck it in an electrical outlet."

"It's good that you did," Walter replies, carefully untangling each wire and inspecting it. "It appears that the robot had a power surge that wiped out her system." He holds up the now-blackened orange wire as evidence. The red one is charred, too—along with others that didn't touch the robot or the electrical source. "It looks like the damage was only temporary." Oliver releases a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "I don't see any charring to her neural bridge, either."

After picking up a sterile pen light, Walter leans in to inspect the opening of her control panel. He makes a noise in his throat before holding up a black wire. "It seems her ground circuit took the brunt of the damage—which is what it was placed to do." Holding up a black wire as evidence, he adds, "This should be white." After squinting, Oliver realizes it's just blackened—some white peeks through underneath the charring.

Brow furrowing, Walter turns to him. "Her circuitry is highly complex. This would have been an expensive system. I'm sad to say most cyborgs can barely afford the neural bridge and rarely live long enough to add a ground circuit. Do you know who did her surgery?"

Shaking his head, Oliver answers, "Felicity is very private about her modifications." He frowns at Walter, trying to make sense of it. "I always assumed Dad did the work." The pictures in her apartment over the shop flash through his head. "She was young when they did the procedure—six or seven, maybe. That was right around the time Dad was doing free surgeries to show the benefits of the technology." Robert Queen, always the businessman: do a few free surgeries for advertising and make the money back tenfold.

"Our surgical ability was crude back then," Walter disagrees. "This was a fine, delicate surgery. I assumed it was only a few years old." Glancing down at Felicity's panel, he adds, "Not to mention that I inherited Robert's patient files. A file that old would have been disposed of, since I assume Miss Smoak makes most of her own repairs." He looks to Oliver for confirmation.

A smile ghosts across Oliver's lips. "She and her assistant changed out her arm for a newer model last month."

"I purge my patient files myself," Walter replies after a brief nod. "I would remember Miss Smoak's name if she had been one of Robert's." Glancing down, he adds, "I would assume the black market then, but most illegal surgeries are crude and nothing more than mild repairs. Few cybernetic surgeons could have done work like this."

Blowing out a breath and removing his gloves, he concludes, "No matter. I happen to have a spare ground system I purchased last month. I was hoping to install it at the free medical center in the Glades, but I think Felicity is in more need of it." He adjusts the monitor before moving back to the cabinets at the side of the room. "I'll put her under light sedation and in a low power state. Because her work isn't in our system, I'll have to do a full system scan first. Between that and the repairs, she should be awake in a couple of hours."

Recognizing the dismissal for what it is, Oliver starts to protest. Walter doesn't let him. "Though you're excellent help, Oliver, you aren't a licensed medical professional. I've already involved you more than I should without Felicity's permission, but only because she's comfortable enough to open her control panel in your presence. Most cyborgs consider a full-body scan an invasion of their privacy as it is. I can't allow you to stay in here for this procedure—not without a blatant disrespect for Felicity's rights."

Sighing, Oliver wonders when he became so obvious that even Walter can win an argument. While the vigilante was prepared to fight and argue to be here, he can't do it at the expense of Felicity's privacy. As a cyborg, she's had so much taken away from her. He can't rip this from her, too. Not after what she's had to endure.

When he's two steps from the door, Walter calls, "Oliver?" He turns to face the surgeon, waiting. "You should know her quick thinking probably saved her life. I might be able to make this repair, but I can only do it on a live patient."

Oliver turns away from the unexpected praise; after years of being nothing but a screw-up, he's forgotten what it feels like. "I stuck her main wire in an electrical outlet," he repeats. In hindsight, it wasn't his best idea, but it's what he could do at the time."

Walter doesn't even flinch. "And if you hadn't," he points out, "I wouldn't be operating on her." He makes a face of distaste. "In all likelihood, I would be removing her modifications for scrap and reuse, as per federal law." Oliver recoils as if he'd been slapped, and Walter nods. "Precisely. Don't dismiss your contribution to this." He stops to pat Oliver's shoulder. "Give me two hours."

"I'm not going anywhere," Oliver answers.

An enigmatic smile comes as the reply. "No," Walter remarks slowly, "I suppose you're not."

Felicity's head feels like it's full of mud. Or maybe molasses. Either way, it feels sluggish and tired. Pain slowly blossoms at the back of her skull, a dull throb at the back of her neck. She waits for it to get stronger, but it doesn't. Good. It doesn't have to be strong to muddle her head even more. It reminds her of the ache in the back of her head after her father upgraded her bridge-point to a more efficient processor.

Processor.

She had been plugged into Thea's robot—she hadn't been asleep. Her eyes go wide as she tries to sit up, but a hand on her shoulder stops her. "Easy," a voice warns. Oliver. Felicity releases a breath. "You've been through a lot in the last couple of hours." Something is off about his voice—it almost seems shaky. She tries to twist her head to look at him, but cries out as a jolt of pain goes through her neck.

The hand on her shoulder goes to her forearm, and Oliver gently slides her over on the bed. His weight settles next to her before offering a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Here, now you can see me without straining your neck," is all he says.

"Are you okay?" she asks, voice coming out in a rasp.

To her surprise, Oliver laughs. "I think I should be asking you that question," he replies. He shifts and the grin slips off his face. "When you interfaced with Thea's robot, it shorted out parts of your system." His eyes meet hers with the kind of intensity she's come to expect from Oliver, staring into her and through her all at once. "It… wasn't good."

A snort from the back of the room draws her attention. "Please. I thought I was gonna have to get Walter to sedate you." It takes her a moment to recognize the voice laced with dry humor, but then she places it as John Diggle, Oliver's bodyguard-slash-chauffer. The way he talks to Oliver is just as familiar and comfortable as before, something that struck her odd for their professional relationship. Maybe they're friends, too.

Oliver turns back to cut him a look before focusing on Felicity again. "You…" He releases a breath. "You stopped breathing." Against her better judgment, she reaches out to take Oliver's hand; the lost expression on his face makes her think he needs a little comfort. He confirms it by squeezing her fingers with a soft smile. "You're lucky Walter was working from home today. He was able to repair the damage to your systems."

"You told your stepdad?" she demands, trying to sit up.

Coaxing her back down, Oliver only replies, "Walter has known since you came with us to the auction." As she gapes at him, he only lifts a shoulder. "He's a cybernetic surgeon, Felicity. He can tell the difference between a com-lens and a retina display." With a small lift to one corner of his mouth, he adds, "If you're worried about it, you shouldn't be. He won't mention it to anyone without your permission, and I think you'll find he's more… radical about his opinion on cyborgs being treated like property."

This time, Felicity rises slightly on her elbows and Oliver doesn't stop her. "And you trust him," she concludes. That much is obvious in his features. She just isn't sure if she's talking about Walter or Diggle: Oliver's body language is open in a way she never sees it around other people.

"Walter is an honest man," he assures her. "I liked him much better when he was my dad's best friend and not sharing a bedroom with my mother, but he respects your privacy." He frowns. "Enough that he wouldn't let me in the room when he was making repairs. Not without your permission."

Felicity's first instinct was to like Walter, and it's good to know that occasionally she gets one right. Her eyes land on Oliver's bodyguard. "And what about you, Mr. Diggle?" she asks.

Surprisingly, the answer comes from Oliver. Though his expression is impassive, his eyes crinkle around the corners, as if trying to hide a smile. "Digg knows how to keep a secret," he assures her.

To his credit, Diggle's expression stays impassive. "I did six tours overseas, Miss Smoak," he answers slowly, "until I came across an IED in the field." Laughing to himself, he adds, "You have to read the fine print in the military contracts. It doesn't just say what they can amputate for medical reasons." He lifts the leg of his dress pants to show the gleam of titanium underneath. Felicity takes a breath. "It says what they can put back in." He winks at her. "Us cyborgs have to stick together. At least you and I are free."

When her brows knit together, Oliver clarifies, "Military policy is that they hold the rights to cyborg modifications until the person finishes their tour. Then they sell off them off to the highest bidder." He nods toward his bodyguard. "His was a security firm. I bought them back, and sold them to John for a labor hour credit."

"Best clock I ever spent," Digg adds.

If she wasn't fond of Oliver already, she would be now. If only he knew how often she fantasized about saving enough money to buy a cyborg's modifications and give them back to the person that was actually using them. Even now, she resists the urge to hug him. It somehow comes out as, "You try to hide it, but you're a good man, Oliver Queen."

"And that's my secret," he answers with a wink. "But back to you. The robot fried your grounding system, so Walter put in a new one. He said your neck might be sore because of it." With a glance toward the door, he adds, "He had to take a quick phone call from the office, but he'll be back in soon to talk to you about it." Oliver throws her a tight smile. "I'm glad you're okay. I was worried."

"I think you mean 'terrified,'" Digg suggests. "People don't typically pace a track in the floor when they're just worried."

"I can still fire you, John," Oliver points out, though there's no fire in his words.

Before either of them can quibble any further, the door swings open. Walter offers Felicity a polite smile, clasping his hands in front of him. "Ah, Miss Smoak, I'm glad to see you're awake." He squints at her for a moment. "How are you feeling?"

"My neck is sore, but other than that, I'm feeling fine," she assures him. Her eyebrows knit together. "Oliver said you had to replace my ground system?" As she categorizes all of her synthetic parts and how they connect together, she adds, "The surge should have blown out my synth-eye—it's not connected to the ground." The new synth-eyes are too sensitive to plug into her grounding system. If Dr. Steele is as good as Oliver has indicated, he might have bought her forty-eight hours. She'd hate to have to buy a new one; the one she has set her back nearly four hundred clocks.

"It did," Walter replies with a nod. "Fortunately, I had one of the new prototypes lying around." He smiles. "I typically use prototypes when volunteer at the free clinic in the Glades, but I saw no reason for it to go to waste when you needed it."

Before she can do more than gape, he continues, "I also had a ground system for the same reason, so I replaced yours with a newer model." He frowns. "You're very fortunate you had one. Most biomechanical synapse systems don't." When he places a hand on Oliver's shoulder, her friend tenses under the touch. "It was even more fortunate that Oliver was able to revive your systems."

At her blank look, Walter only chuckles. "I take it he left that part out," is his correct assumption. "Oliver said you went into complete cardiac arrest, but he was able to override your ground circuit by touching your master circuit to an electrical outlet." Oliver finds something fascinating about his shoes when she gapes at him. "You're lucky he did. If he hadn't, there would have been very little I could have done."

"You—" she starts, scrambling for words.

"I know," he assures her, as if he thinks she's going to chastise him for saving her life, "it was reckless. I didn't want to treat your cybernetic system that way, but—"

When she squeezes his arm, he stops, meeting her eyes. "That was a brave choice," she finally says. "Thank you." His eyes widen for a fraction of a second, and she realizes he has no idea what a grand gesture he made. A lot of humans have called her friend over the years, but most of them would have just let her die. Any human who would take risks to save her life… well, that's rare. That's special.

Maybe he really did mean it when he said he wouldn't leave her.

Oliver dismisses it with a shake of his head. "There was no choice to make," he insists. "I'm sorry if I did any damage to your circuit—"

She shushes him with a wave of her hand. "Hey, no!" she insists. "I don't get to complain about the way you saved my life, Oliver. There aren't a lot of humans who would think it was worth saving." His eyebrows knit together as though that's incomprehensible. This is just one of those times she realizes how long he's been away from civilization. "Seriously, thank you."

"Speaking of your circuitry," Walter calls, causing her to jump. She had forgotten he was there, but now she turns to gentle, intelligent eyes focused on her. "I have some questions about your modifications, if you would feel comfortable answering them." His eyes flick to Oliver. "Privately, of course."

Rising from his chair, Diggle clears his throat. "I think that's my cue to step out of the room," he comments with a smile. With a nod, he adds, "I'm glad to see you in one piece, Felicity. Or maybe a few functioning ones, depending on how you look at it."

She offers him a wave and a smile. "I'll see you around, John."

His eyes flick to Oliver with a silent message: where he goes, I go. "Oh, I know you will." Something about his wordless implications make her insides squirm, but she tries to ignore it, even as her retina display helpfully informs her that her body is initiating cooling procedures.

When he moves to follow, Felicity places a hand on Oliver's thigh to stop him. What he did today was a grand gesture, whether he knew it or not. It deserves a little trust in return, which makes her say to Walter, "Oliver can stay if he wants. I don't mind." When her hand leaves his leg, he makes no move to get up.

If that surprises Dr. Steele, it doesn't show on his face. "Very well," is his reply. His fingers fly across the portcom in his hands. "I had to do a scan of your modifications and their synapses to get acquainted with your setup." An impersonal diagram of a body pops up on the screen, and Felicity feels like her stomach did a backflip. "Everything in red is synthetic tissue."

She expected the obvious things. Felicity has grown up with a fully titanium arm, as well as a completely titanium leg. Her left eye is synthetic, and there's a wide variety of wires hidden behind the control panel in her neck. There's a grounding circuit stuck back there, too, to keep her systems from getting fried beyond repair.

But so much of it stops her cold. She didn't know the titanium leg extended upward and was fused into her pelvic bone. She didn't know the metal of her arm articulated with an entirely metal collar bone and shoulder blade, or that the left side of her ribcage was artificial. One lobe of her left lung is entirely synthetic tissue, as is a section of her heart. Even the part of her skull by her eye is a metal plate.

In high school, someone once said she was just lights and clockwork.

It appears he wasn't wrong.

"I… I never realized," she breathes out. "I didn't know it was this bad." Oliver squeezes her hand, and she laces his fingers through his absently. To Walter, she clarifies, "I was six when it happened. I just always thought it was… well, the obvious." She motions to each item in turn. "The leg, arm, eye, and neural bridge to tie it all together."

"You had quite the surgeon," Walter remarks, eyebrows rising. Felicity smiles at that; no surgeon has probably ever been as motivated as hers was. "About thirty-seven percent of your makeup is synthetic. I confess, I've never seen a successful reconstruction case of this magnitude." He turns to her. "May I ask what happened?"

Felicity frowns, but, as always, no images flash through her mind. "I, um… There was a fire," she answers, trying to think of the best way to tell it. "I don't remember much of it—some memories never came back after—but we were living in this apartment complex in the Glades. It was one of the ones owned by John Nickel."

Oliver's expression turns dark and dangerous, and she wonders how he knows the name. "Even then, he used a lot of substandard wiring in his buildings. Our place caught fire in the middle of the night. My dad was an inventor, and some of his materials were flammable. I think it compounded the fire." She shrugs. "Either way, I remember waking up because my shoulder hurt. It wasn't until later I realized it was on fire." As Oliver's fingers tighten around hers, she continues, "My parents couldn't get to me, and I couldn't get to the fire escape. Eventually the firefighters got them out, but…" She shakes her head. "I was alive, but barely.

"My dad was Noah Kuttler," she adds. Walter's eyes light up immediately, but Oliver only frowns. "His pet project was fully articulated prosthetics that would interface right into the brain." She smiles at a memory of her dad trying to explain that to her five-year-old self. "At the time, his designs were crude and simple at best, but he wouldn't give up after the doctors said I was hopeless. So he petitioned to keep me in suspended animation for a year."

Suspended animation tanks, a relatively old design now, were originally created to keep loved ones alive a little longer when death was imminent. But because of the risk of overpopulation, their use is highly restricted by world government. Fortunately, no one on the review committee had begrudged a father the chance to save his daughter.

Despite the difficulties she had with her father, part of her has to admire him for that. Most people would have given up and accepted their fate. But not Noah Kuttler. He looked at his daughter's broken body and refused to give up, no matter how bad it looked. She always thought of her mother as the stubborn one, but how could Donna Smoak hold a candle to a man who wouldn't accept reality? He had always had drive and intelligence, but they would have meant nothing if he had simply given in.

Walter's eyes widen. "Suspended animation is very expensive," he notes. "I can only imagine what a year must have cost."

Felicity nods once, snorting. "My mom is still paying for it," she replies with a laugh. "She won't let me help pay for it, either. She just insists it's the best money she's ever spent."

"Your parents must love you very much," Oliver finally says, an odd expression on his face. For not the first time, Felicity wonders if he experienced that kind of love, growing up in a too-large home where importance was placed on appearances first. Maybe she was luckier than she thought, being raised without money but with two caring parents. Even after they separated, there wasn't a moment where she doubted that.

Walter's brow furrows at the screen. "I saw the patents for Mr. Kuttler's work," he notes aloud. "They were rudimentary, but this…" He stares at it. "Queen Consolidated has been building on those patents for nearly twenty years, and this is far beyond what we're capable of now."

"That's because Dad didn't trust Robert Queen," she blurts. A second later, Felicity cringes. "Which is probably not a good thing to say in his home."

Oliver just squeezes her hand. "I know what kind of man my father was," he assures her quietly.

"Robert was a very dear friend of mine," Walter says after a moment, "but I was under no illusions as to the way he ran his company." He glances back to the display of her modifications. "It was often men like your father that suffered in business dealings."

"Which is why he sold Queen Consolidated the old patents," Felicity replies with a laugh. Robert Queen may have been a brilliant businessman, but he would have been no match for her dad's IQ of 187. "My dad presented them as though were the ones used in my modifications, but they were nearly useless." It takes everything within her not to tell them that the real blueprints hadn't been patented, but are sitting in a secure box, to which she won't get access until she turns twenty-five. Her dad left them to her, to do with what she wanted. Next year, she can use them to build that fortune so she can start giving cyborgs ownership of their own parts.

Even now it puts a smile on her face.

Oblivious to it, Walter focuses on her scans again. "Our first attempts at cybernetic surgeries were sloppy, but this… This was performed with care and precision." He taps the pelvic area. "Most people are rendered infertile by the surgery. Sometimes intentionally, I'm sad to say, though I have a strict, no-tolerance policy about that at Queen Consolidated." That one sentence is enough to make her respect Walter Steele. "Your reproductive system is fully intact, however."

It's something she appreciates a lot less for one week out of every month. Snorting, she replies, "So all I need is a guy whose turn-ons include complex wiring." Felicity rolls her eyes. "I usually can't get anyone to even stand in the same room, much less have children with me."

"Have you ever thought it might be because of your personality?" Oliver teases. Felicity pulls her hand from his to shove his shoulder, which makes him laugh.

"If only it would keep you away," she retorts with a grin.

With the hint of a smile, Walter clarifies, "My point is that, should you choose to have biological children, that option is still afforded to you." One corner of his mouth turns up. "Even if that would mean in vitro fertilization."

She doesn't have the heart to tell him that cyborgs—even free ones, like her—aren't allowed elective reproductive procedures like IVF. It's almost like everyone in public policy thinks that metal limbs are contagious. Maybe it would be better if they were contagious; the world would be less judgmental if humans realized a few lights and clockwork didn't change who they were.

"I'll keep your files on my records here at the house for your privacy," Walter adds after a moment. "I have no doubt you're capable of making your own repairs, but should you ever need another set of hands, I'd be glad to help."

Felicity slides off the table before extending her hand for him to shake. He does so without any hesitation. "I would consider going to anyone else," she assures him. "Thank you, Dr. Steele, for all you did today. I appreciate it." She waves her left hand in the air. "If you ever need any equipment repaired—"

He offers her a warm smile. "Believe me, Miss Smoak, I know. Try to be more careful with your diagnostics protocols in the future." His eyes flick to Oliver. "Perhaps for my stepson's sake, if not your own. I think he's become rather fond of you."

"I wish I could say the feeling was mutual," she quips, which earns her a hey! for her efforts.

His attempt to act hurt is broken when he motions toward the door with a smile. "Let me take you home," Oliver asks. When she doesn't move—she's too transfixed by the grin on his face—he guides her toward the door with a hand on the small of her back.

"But Thea's robot—" she starts to protest.

"Will be there when you aren't recovering from major cybernetic surgery," he insists. She tries to argue again, but he silences her with a single look. "Please," the asshole adds for good measure.

Grudgingly, she replies, "Only because it's you asking."

Later that night, Oliver slips into an open window of a lavish penthouse apartment. Everything screams excess—even to him, after growing up at Queen Manor. He frowns down at the tiger pelt on the floor before circling around it. As if he didn't have enough reason to hate the man.

Nocking his bow, he slips into the bedroom, where a lone man is sleeping in his bed, oblivious to the Arrow wandering around his home at two a.m. Oliver takes a minute to switch on the voice modulator, and a smile comes to his lips. So far he's taken no pleasure in his work, but tonight might just change that.

He shoves the tip of the arrow against the man's nose to wake him. At first he only stirs, but Oliver just pushes it a little deeper. Finally his target's eyes open. First his expression flickers through confusion, finally landing on terror as he realizes the Starling City Vigilante has come for him tonight.

A dark satisfaction washes over Oliver as he declares, "John Nickel, you have failed this city."