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and i'm ready to suffer (and i'm ready to hope)

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Felicity wakes to knocking.

Strangely loud knocking.

The sound reverberates through the door again, humming… against her back?

“Oh.” Felicity grumbled. She was slumped against the door. That’s why the knocking was so loud.

Felicity blinks blearily, taking in the familiar surroundings of her apartment, not at all surprised to find herself on the floor. She is, however, a little annoyed that she didn’t make it further into the apartment before passing out; at least then she could’ve ignored her visitor.

“Felicity… Smoak?” a voice echoes through the door, soon followed by three more sharp knocks, “Is anyone home?”

“Who is it?” Felicity croaks back while sitting up, wincing as her many bruises stretch across her skin and the knot in her neck makes itself known.

There’s a pause, and then, “My name is Sara Lance. I’m a forensic scientist with the CCPD. My sister, Laurel, recommended you to me.”

Felicity pauses from where she had been rubbing her neck at that. Laurel Lance had come to Felicity several times in the past few months for technical help. She had been nice, if a little technically and socially inept, and had been unable to keep still as Felicity talked; practically thrumming with tense energy.

(Felicity doesn’t blame Laurel for her slightly awkward behaviour. Felicity’s can be as, if not more, as awkward and standoffish as the Lance sister, and she hadn’t been stranded on a deserted island with her dead boyfriend’s father for five years)

“What do you want?” Felicity says, hissing slightly as she gets to her feet.

Another pause- do the Lances like awkward silences? - and then, “I need your help. But I’d rather talk inside.”

Felicity considers the door for a moment, absentmindedly pulling down her sleeves and shoving her left hand into her jean pocket, and then nods to herself before unlocking the door with her right hand and throwing it open.

“Wow.” Felicity says, “You’re really pretty.”

Sara’s mouth drops open slightly- which is not helping Felicity’s train of thought, goddamn- before smiling and offering her hand before Felicity can fall into an embarrassing babble,

“It’s nice to meet you, Felicity.”


Laurel hadn’t said the P.I was cute.

“Sorry about the mess.” Felicity says while leading her to the lounge, sounding genuinely apologetic, “It’s been a rough, ah…year.”

“It’s no problem.” Sara rushes to reassure her, “Really, it’s fine.”

Felicity offers her a tremulous smile (Sara can’t help her eyes darting to her lips) before taking a seat on a large, black armchair and gesturing across the coffee table to the couch.

“So,” Felicity says while leaning back, “What can I do for you that the CCPD can’t?”


Turns out she can do a lot.

Felicity eyes the files Sara had spread out across the table, coolly and analytically taking in data and facts.

“Well?” Sara says quietly, “Will you help?”

Felicity doesn’t look up from eight year old Ella Jones’ autopsy report; fists clenched and knuckles white she says “A private investigator getting…involved in an official police investigation is illegal.”

“I know.” Sara replies.

“We could both go to jail.”

“I know.”

Felicity looks up and stares at Sara. The Lance sister stares back unwaveringly, chin jutted out defiantly and back straight. The resemblance to her older sister is striking.

Going against the instinct her father had taught her to have years ago, Felicity breaks eye contact first. Taking her left hand out of her jeans she picks up one of the pictures from the coffee table and holds it in front of her, contemplating. Deep in thought she almost doesn’t hear Sara’s small intake of breath at the sight of the marred, inked skin.

Almost.

Felicity places the picture back on the table and leans back before saying,

“I’m in.”


After the door closes behind her Sara walks briskly out of the apartment building and makes it to the carpark before looking back.

Felicity Smoak had been…interesting to say the least. With the wild black hair and ripped jeans she looked more like a punk rocker than a private investigator. Her apartment had been dull and near bare apart from a few bits of ratty furniture, yet Felicity herself had been babbly and energetic until Sara had given her the files. Then she had become controlled and focused, listening intently as Sara made her case. The harsh lamplight casting deep shadows on her face; the blinds having been shut despite it being noon.

Stilling suddenly, Sara’s eyes narrow slightly before she takes out her phone and opens up the information on Felicity she had gotten one of the energetic IT experts at the CCPD to get for her.

Felicity Megan Smoak. Age: 23. Born: 10/31/1992. Occupation: Private Investigator. Mother: Donna Smoak (institutionalised). Father: Unknown.

With the exception of some juvenile priors (see attached file) Ms Smoak lives almost completely under the radar. No social media whatsoever and reviews of her service are limited to ‘highly recommended’ and not much else. She pays her taxes, goes grocery shopping once a fortnight-or after cashing a substantial paycheck from a case, which happens often. She actually has quite a lot of money saved up despite her ‘humble’ place of residence. Which doesn’t really explain why she hasn’t paid her electrical bill…ever. Power in the building was blasted out during the Particle Accelerator explosion and Ms Smoak moved in soon after. She refused to have it rewired.

Sara’s eyes shoot up and she stares at the apartment building.

How can she have electricity without any wiring?


Felicity stretches, letting her head fall back and her wet curls touch her bare lower back, before wrapping a towel around herself and heading towards the back room of the apartment.

Much like her sister, Sara Lance had been a notable experience. Which, wow, sounds kinda dirty now that Felicity thinks about it. Not that Sara wasn’t beautiful, with her sharp blue eyes and shining blonde hair, and that cute little chin dimpl-

“Snap out of it Smoak.” Felicity mutters, shaking her head.

Although Sara wasn’t just beautiful. She had been articulate and determined, and wasn’t afraid of the potential fallout that could result if she got caught sharing classified documents with an outsider. She wanted a monster caught, and wasn’t afraid to break the law to do it. Felicity admired that. Admired all kinds of determination really, but Sara was something special. Not so much an innocent flower with a serpent lurking under it but more a bird of prey, graceful and deadly.

Also she had great taste in shoes. It’s like the universe had thrown this woman into Felicity’s life to tick all her boxes.

(and yeah, she had totally noticed Sara’s eyes dip to her lips a few times, so the attraction was definitely mutual.)

Resisting the urge to preen at the memory of Sara’s attentions, Felicity opens the door to the back room and steps in. Shivering slightly at the rush of cool air, she closes the door behind her and steps into the middle of the room. Dead computers surround her, dark and silent.

Felicity lifts her hand in front of her face and stares at it. She gazes at the ink patterns that are etched overtop of the scars that dance all the way down her forearm. Some had been self-inflicted, others not. But the ache of the marred skin has never eased the buzz in her bones. 

Slowly Felicity clenches her hand into a fist, closes her eyes, and for a moment she just rests. Blocks out the noise of the apartment building’s other residents, of the cars and people on the street below. All she can hear is the thrum of her own energy. For a moment she just…exists.

If her research into Sara checks out, maybe Felicity will ask her out to dinner.

Felicity unclenches her fist and throws her arm out in one smooth movement. The effect is instantaneous as purple and blue electricity shoots from her out turned palm. The computers buzz to life and the room is filled with a deafening humming as lines after line of binary code runs down the screens. Wires whip back and forth before shooting towards Felicity’s back, stopping so not to impale her as electricity is absorbed in her skin.

Felicity opens her eyes, now a burning lavender, and the screens still for a second before page after page of information on Sara Lance adorns the monitors. It’s not that Felicity doesn’t trust her, she just doesn’t trust the CCPD.

A metahuman can never be too careful in this city, after all.