The Next Day, Queen Consolidated - IT Department
The elevator dinged with the kind of pristine corporate chime that probably cost more than most people's monthly salaries, and Harry Potter stepped out into the organized chaos of Queen Consolidated's IT department with the fluid grace of someone who'd learned to own every room he entered. At twenty-three, he'd grown into the kind of devastating handsomeness that made photographers weep and socialites swoon—six-foot-two of lean muscle wrapped in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most cars, with emerald green eyes that could cut glass and a smile that suggested he knew exactly how good he looked and found it mildly amusing.
"Right then," he drawled in that crisp British accent that had been charming Americans since he'd arrived in Starling City five years ago, "let's go meet your computer genius, shall we? Though I do hope she's more impressive than the last IT specialist I encountered. Poor girl couldn't find her own arse with both hands and a GPS."
Behind him, Oliver Queen emerged from the elevator wearing his carefully constructed mask of corporate indifference—the billionaire playboy persona that had served him so well since returning from Lian Yu. At twenty-eight, Oliver had the kind of rugged handsomeness that belonged on magazine covers, all sharp jawlines and intense blue eyes, but there was something harder underneath now, forged in five years of hell that most people couldn't even imagine. His expensive suit—navy blue Armani that fit like it had been sewn directly onto his muscled frame—marked him as exactly what he was supposed to be: a wealthy young man with more money than sense.
"Try not to traumatize her before we get what we need," Oliver said dryly, though there was genuine affection in his voice. Five years of being Harry's cousin had taught him to appreciate the younger man's razor-sharp wit, even when it was deployed with surgical precision against unsuspecting targets.
John Diggle brought up the rear, his imposing presence filling the elevator doorway like a human wall. At six-foot-four and built like he could bench press a small car, Diggle moved with the controlled precision of someone who'd spent years in the military followed by more years keeping important people alive in increasingly creative ways. His dark suit was perfectly professional, but Harry knew that beneath the corporate facade was enough firepower to level a small building and the tactical expertise to use it effectively.
"Oliver," Diggle said in his deep, measured voice, "with respect, your cousin has a point. If we're going to ask Miss Smoak to access restricted corporate files, we need her cooperative, not running for HR because Harry here decided to demonstrate his legendary charm."
Harry's grin was sharp enough to perform surgery. "Legendary? Diggle, you flatter me. Though I prefer 'devastatingly effective' to 'legendary.' Has a certain ring to it, don't you think?"
The IT department buzzed with the familiar white noise of dozens of high-end computers, punctuated by the occasional frustrated mutter and the rapid-fire clicking of mechanical keyboards that probably cost more than most people's rent. Massive monitors displayed everything from cascading code to network diagnostics, and the air hummed with the kind of expensive technology that made Silicon Valley executives weep with envy.
Most of the employees kept their heads down, focused on their screens with the kind of determined concentration that suggested they were either deeply absorbed in saving the digital world or desperately trying to avoid being assigned another impossible deadline by management who thought "just make it work" was a valid technical specification.
"There," Oliver said quietly, nodding toward a workstation near the far corner that looked like it belonged in a NASA control room rather than a corporate IT department.
Harry followed his gaze and immediately understood why Oliver had such confidence in Felicity Smoak's abilities. Even from across the room, it was clear that her workstation was several evolutionary steps ahead of anything else on the floor. Multiple curved monitors displayed what appeared to be enough information to run a small country—cascading code, real-time network diagnostics, security feeds from half the building, and what looked suspiciously like she was simultaneously debugging a quantum encryption algorithm while monitoring global cyber threats.
She was also, Harry noted with the automatic appreciation of a man who'd learned to notice such things, absolutely stunning in that understated way that suggested she had no idea how attractive she was. Blonde hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with a few strategic strands framing her face, oversized glasses that somehow managed to be both professional and adorable, and the kind of focused intensity that spoke of a brilliant mind operating at full capacity.
Her fingers moved across multiple keyboards with the fluid precision of a concert pianist, and Harry caught sight of at least three different programming languages scrolling across her screens simultaneously.
"Bloody hell," he murmured appreciatively, "she's actually competent. How refreshingly unexpected."
"Miss Smoak?" Oliver approached her workstation with just the right amount of hesitant uncertainty, the billionaire playboy mask sliding into place with practiced ease. "I'm Oliver Queen. We spoke a few weeks ago about some technical issues?"
Felicity looked up from her screens, and Harry had to bite back a laugh as he watched the perfect storm of recognition, panic, and what appeared to be a minor cardiac event play out across her expressive features. Her blue eyes went wide behind her glasses, she nearly knocked over not one but two coffee mugs in her haste to minimize whatever classified information had been displayed, and her mouth opened and closed several times without producing any actual sound.
"Mr. Queen!" she finally managed, her voice climbing several octaves. "Hi! I mean, hello! I mean—oh God, you're here. In person. Looking very... persony. And handsome. I mean professional! You look very professional. Which you are. Obviously. Because you're Oliver Queen and you probably own this building. Do you own this building?"
Harry's eyebrows rose with delighted surprise. "Oliver, you didn't mention she was adorable."
Felicity's head snapped toward Harry, and he watched with amusement as her eyes widened even further—which seemed physically impossible but she was somehow managing it.
"Oh," she breathed, and Harry was fairly certain he heard her brain short-circuit in real time. "Oh my. You're very... tall. And British. Are you a model? You look like you should be a model. Or maybe an actor. Have you considered acting? Because you have very good bone structure and your eyes are actually the most beautiful shade of green I've ever seen and I'm talking too much, aren't I?"
"Just a bit," Harry said with a grin that could have powered half the building, his emerald eyes sparkling with genuine amusement. "Though I do appreciate the commentary on my bone structure. It's refreshingly honest."
Oliver cleared his throat, though Harry caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth that suggested he was fighting back laughter. "Felicity, this is my cousin, Harry Potter. And this is John Diggle, my security consultant."
Diggle stepped forward with the kind of professional smile that somehow managed to be both friendly and slightly intimidating. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss Smoak."
"Potter," Felicity repeated faintly, as if she was processing the name through some kind of internal database. "As in the Harry Potter who was in all the society pages when he moved here from England? The one whose tragic backstory made half of Starling City's eligible daughters suddenly develop British accents?"
Harry's laugh was rich and genuinely delighted. "Guilty as charged, though I do hope the accent thing has died down by now. It was getting rather embarrassing at social functions."
"Oh God, did I just call your backstory tragic to your face?" Felicity's hands flew to her mouth in horror. "I am so sorry. That was incredibly insensitive and tactless and I have absolutely no filter when I'm nervous and you probably think I'm completely unprofessional and—"
"Breathe, Miss Smoak," Oliver said gently, settling into the chair beside her workstation with fluid grace. "You're fine. We're actually here because we need your help with something."
"My help?" Felicity's voice squeaked slightly. "With what? I mean, not that I wouldn't help you with anything because you're Oliver Queen and also terrifyingly attractive in person, but what could I possibly help you with that you couldn't get from someone much more qualified and significantly less likely to say embarrassing things?"
Harry leaned against the edge of her desk with casual elegance, close enough that he could smell her perfume—something light and floral that suited her perfectly. "We're hoping you might be able to help us with some historical research. Company records, employment files, that sort of thing."
"Historical research," Felicity repeated, her fingers already moving toward her keyboard with unconscious efficiency. "Okay, I can do that. What kind of historical research? Because I should probably mention that I have access to pretty much everything, which sounds impressive until you realize it also means I've accidentally seen way too much information about the personal lives of Queen Consolidated executives and let me just say that some of you people have very interesting browser histories."
Oliver's expression shifted to something that might have been alarm. "Please tell me you didn't—"
"Oh God, no!" Felicity said quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. "I would never violate anyone's privacy like that! I mean, the system flags certain activities for security reasons, but I don't actually look at the reports unless there's a legitimate security concern and even then I try to pretend I didn't see anything inappropriate because honestly some things cannot be unseen and—"
"Felicity," Harry interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying just enough authority to cut through her rambling without being harsh. "Breathe. We're not worried about browser histories. We're interested in employment records from Queen Industrial Inc."
"Queen Industrial," she repeated, her fingers already flying across her keyboard with impressive speed. "That was the manufacturing facility that was closed in 2020, right? When your father decided to outsource production to China and put a bunch of people out of work?"
The moment the words left her mouth, Harry watched her face go pale with horror as she realized what she'd just said.
"Oh no," she whispered. "Oh no, no, no. I did not just criticize your dead father's business decisions to your face. I am the worst person in the world and I should probably just quit my job right now and move to a different city where no one knows about my complete inability to engage in normal human conversation."
Oliver's expression had gone carefully neutral, but Harry caught the slight tightening around his eyes that suggested the comment had hit closer to home than his cousin was comfortable with.
"It's alright, Felicity," Oliver said quietly. "You're not wrong. The closure of Queen Industrial displaced a lot of people, and not all of them landed on their feet."
Diggle moved slightly closer, his position giving him clear sight lines to the elevator and stairwell entrances while also projecting the kind of protective presence that suggested this conversation was important enough to warrant executive security.
"Which is actually why we're here," Harry said smoothly, his accent lending an air of sophisticated authority to the words. "We're looking into some irregularities in the historical employment records, particularly around the circumstances of certain terminations."
"Irregularities?" Felicity's voice carried just the right note of professional caution. "What kind of irregularities? Because I should probably mention that all employment records are confidential and I'm not supposed to access them without proper authorization, although I suppose you technically own the company so that probably counts as authorization, but I've never actually been in this situation before and I'm not entirely sure what the proper protocol is."
Harry and Oliver exchanged one of those wordless conversations that came from years of family dynamics—how much to reveal, how much could they trust her, how much truth was safe to share with someone who clearly had both the technical skills they needed and the moral compass to use them responsibly.
"There have been some incidents," Oliver said finally, choosing his words with the precision of someone who'd learned that the truth was often more dangerous than carefully constructed lies. "Criminal activity that might be connected to former Queen Industrial employees. We want to understand if there were circumstances during the closure that might have contributed to... poor life choices."
Felicity studied Oliver's face with the kind of intense focus she usually reserved for particularly challenging code, and Harry could practically see her brilliant mind working through the implications.
"You think someone who lost their job at Queen Industrial is now committing crimes," she said slowly. "And you want to understand whether their termination circumstances might have been a contributing factor."
"Something like that," Harry confirmed, impressed despite himself by how quickly she'd grasped the situation. "We're particularly interested in one individual—Derek Reston. He was a foreman at the facility."
"Derek Reston," Felicity murmured, her fingers already dancing across her keyboard with the kind of efficiency that suggested she could probably hack the Pentagon before lunch. "Let me see what I can find."
Multiple windows opened and closed on her screens as she navigated through what appeared to be a labyrinthine database system that probably contained more information than the Library of Congress.
"Okay," she said after a moment, "Derek Reston. Employed for fifteen years, started as a line worker and worked his way up to senior procurement and materials management. Solid performance reviews, exemplary attendance record, no disciplinary issues, well-liked by his colleagues..." She trailed off, her expression shifting to something like sympathy. "Until three weeks before the facility closure."
"What happened three weeks before the closure?" Diggle asked, his deep voice carrying the kind of authority that suggested the question wasn't optional.
"He was caught removing raw materials from the facility without authorization," Felicity said, her voice taking on the careful neutrality of someone delivering bad news. "Specifically, trace amounts of dwarf star alloy composites and related metallurgical compounds."
Harry felt something cold settle in his stomach. "How much are we talking about?"
"According to the inventory reports, approximately twelve thousand dollars worth of materials over a period of six weeks." Felicity scrolled through additional screens, her expression growing more troubled with each revelation. "But here's the concerning part—the investigation notes suggest this wasn't opportunistic theft. It was systematic, planned, methodical. He knew exactly what he was taking and he'd been building up to it for months."
Oliver leaned forward slightly, his blue eyes intense. "What happened after he was caught?"
Felicity's fingers paused over her keyboard, and she glanced around the IT department as if suddenly remembering they weren't alone in a secure briefing room.
"This is where it gets complicated," she said quietly, lowering her voice. "Normally, employee theft of that magnitude would result in immediate criminal charges, especially given the nature of the materials involved. Dwarf star alloy compounds are restricted materials with very specific applications, mostly related to advanced weapons manufacturing."
"But?" Harry prompted, though he suspected he already knew where this was heading.
"But according to these records, your father personally intervened," Felicity said, looking directly at Oliver with an expression that suggested she was bracing herself for another conversational disaster. "Robert Queen made a deal with Derek Reston."
"What kind of deal?" Oliver's voice had gone flat, emotionless in the way that suggested he was working very hard to maintain control.
"Criminal charges were dropped in exchange for Derek's immediate termination and forfeiture of all benefits, including his pension and severance package." Felicity's voice carried a note of disapproval that suggested her personal feelings about corporate decisions that destroyed people's lives. "Fifteen years of loyal service, and he walked away with nothing. Less than nothing, actually, because his termination was classified as 'for cause,' which meant he couldn't collect unemployment benefits either."
The silence that followed was heavy with implications. Harry found himself studying his cousin's face, looking for any sign of how Oliver was processing this information about his father's business practices.
"What about his family?" Diggle asked, his expression grim.
"Janice Reston, unemployed. Two sons—Kyle, age twenty-four, and Theodore, age twenty-one. At the time of Derek's termination, the family was three months behind on their mortgage and facing foreclosure." Felicity pulled up additional records with quick, efficient keystrokes. "Credit reports show a rapid decline into serious debt following Derek's job loss. Bankruptcy filing six months later, house foreclosed eight months after that."
"Jesus," Oliver said quietly.
"It gets worse," Felicity continued, and Harry noted that she seemed to have forgotten her earlier nervousness in favor of righteous indignation. "The materials Derek stole—they weren't just valuable. They were dangerous. The kind of compounds that, in the hands of someone with his level of metallurgical knowledge, could be sold on the black market for ten times their raw value."
"Meaning what, exactly?" Harry asked, though he was beginning to suspect he didn't want to know the answer.
"Meaning that Derek Reston had the knowledge, the connections, and the desperation to turn twelve thousand dollars worth of stolen materials into enough money to disappear properly," Felicity said, looking up from her screen with troubled blue eyes. "And according to his employment records and the investigation notes, he was smart enough to plan for exactly that scenario."
Harry exchanged a look with Oliver, and this time the wordless conversation carried the weight of family history and corporate responsibility. They'd been hunting the Royal Flush Gang as criminals, but the picture Felicity was painting suggested something far more complex—a good man destroyed by circumstances largely beyond his control, pushed into choices that had seemed reasonable at the time.
"There's more," Felicity said hesitantly. "And I'm not sure I should be sharing this, but given what you've told me about criminal activity..."
"Share it," Oliver said firmly.
"The investigation into Derek's theft turned up evidence that he'd been in contact with buyers for the stolen materials weeks before he was caught," Felicity said, her voice dropping even lower. "Which means he wasn't just stealing on impulse. He was planning an exit strategy, building connections, setting up a pipeline for future transactions."
"Future transactions," Diggle repeated grimly. "As in, he was planning to keep stealing."
"Or he was planning to use his knowledge and connections to facilitate other people's theft," Felicity said. "Someone with his background would be incredibly valuable to the right kind of criminal organization. He knows Queen Consolidated's security protocols, he understands the materials and their applications, and he has fifteen years of institutional knowledge about how the company operates."
Harry felt the pieces clicking into place with the inevitability of a well-constructed trap. Derek Reston hadn't just been driven to crime by desperation—he'd been positioned by circumstances to become exactly the kind of criminal who could do serious damage.
"One more question," Diggle said, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd learned to ask the hard questions. "The decision to close Queen Industrial and move production overseas—was that really about cost-cutting, or were there other factors?"
Felicity hesitated, and Harry caught the moment of internal debate. She was clearly uncomfortable discussing high-level corporate decisions, but the question touched on something that obviously bothered her.
"According to the board meeting minutes from that period, Queen Industrial was losing money," she said carefully. "The overseas transition was projected to improve the company's bottom line by approximately forty percent within two years."
"At the cost of how many jobs?" Harry asked, though he suspected he already knew.
"Two hundred and thirty-seven employees," Felicity replied without needing to check her records. "All terminated within a six-week period. Most of them had been with the company for over ten years."
"And how many of those employees received adequate severance packages?" Oliver asked quietly.
Felicity's fingers moved across her keyboard, and Harry watched her expression grow increasingly troubled as she reviewed the termination records.
"Seventeen," she said finally. "Seventeen out of two hundred and thirty-seven received what could be considered adequate severance. The rest received minimal compensation or, like Derek Reston, nothing at all."
The silence that followed was deafening. Harry found himself thinking about Derek Reston—fifteen years of loyalty, a family to support, and a corporate decision that had destroyed everything he'd worked to build. It didn't excuse the bank robberies or the weapons dealing, but it certainly explained how a presumably honest man might find himself planning crimes that would have been unthinkable under normal circumstances.
"Miss Smoak," Oliver said finally, his voice carrying a sincerity that cut through his usual playboy facade like a blade. "I want you to know that this conversation stays between us. What we've discussed today—"
"Never happened," Felicity finished, though her voice carried a note of sadness that suggested she understood the implications of what they'd discovered. "I understand the sensitivity of the situation, Mr. Queen. And for what it's worth, I hope you find what you're looking for."
She paused, her fingers hovering over her keyboard as if debating whether to say more.
"Derek Reston wasn't the only employee who left Queen Industrial under questionable circumstances," she said quietly. "The closure was handled... poorly. A lot of good people found themselves without resources or alternatives. If there are others who've made similar choices, you might want to consider whether the problem is individual moral failing or systemic institutional failure."
Harry felt a flash of respect for the blonde IT specialist that went beyond her obvious technical competence and stunning good looks. She had the kind of moral clarity that was rare in corporate environments, the courage to speak truth to power even when it might not be welcome.
"You know," Harry said thoughtfully, his emerald eyes sparkling with something that might have been admiration, "you're quite remarkable, Miss Smoak. Brilliant, beautiful, and possessed of a moral compass that actually points north. It's a rather devastating combination."
Felicity's cheeks flushed pink, and she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with the kind of unconscious grace that made Harry's smile widen.
"I'm really not," she said, though her voice carried a pleased note that suggested she wasn't entirely immune to British charm deployed with surgical precision. "I just think people deserve better than being treated like disposable assets by companies that made billions off their labor."
"See?" Harry said to Oliver. "Remarkable."
Oliver stood, extending his hand to Felicity with the kind of formal courtesy that somehow managed to be both professional and genuinely warm. "Thank you, Felicity. You've been enormously helpful."
Felicity shook his hand, and Harry noted with amusement that she held on just a moment longer than strictly necessary, her cheeks maintaining that attractive pink flush.
"If you need anything else, please don't hesitate to ask," she said, then immediately looked horrified at her own words. "I mean, anything work-related! Not anything anything. Just professional anything. Oh God, that sounded terrible, didn't it?"
Harry laughed, a rich sound that drew appreciative glances from several nearby IT employees. "On the contrary, it sounded perfectly charming. Though I do hope Oliver takes you up on that offer. You're far too interesting to limit to a single conversation."
He extended his own hand, and when Felicity took it, he brought her fingers to his lips with old-world gallantry that belonged in a different century.
"It's been an absolute pleasure, Miss Smoak," he said, his emerald eyes holding hers with an intensity that made her breath catch. "I do hope we'll see each other again soon."
"I... yes... that would be..." Felicity seemed to have forgotten how to form complete sentences, which Harry found both endearing and rather satisfying.
As they made their way back to the elevator, Harry caught the slight smile playing at the corners of Oliver's mouth.
"What?" Harry asked innocently.
"Nothing," Oliver replied. "Just enjoying watching you work."
"I have no idea what you mean," Harry said with exaggerated dignity. "I was merely being polite to a helpful colleague."
"Right," Diggle said dryly as the elevator doors closed behind them. "Polite. Is that what we're calling it now?"
Harry's grin was sharp and unrepentant. "I prefer to think of it as international relations. Building bridges between our great nations through the strategic deployment of charm and devastating good looks."
Oliver shook his head, but he was fighting back laughter. "Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if Aunt Lily had lived to see what you've become."
"She'd probably have locked me in a tower until I learned some humility," Harry said, though his voice carried a note of genuine affection. "Though I suspect she'd have approved of the results we just achieved."
"Speaking of results," Diggle said, his expression turning serious, "we now know that Derek Reston isn't just a desperate family man. He's a desperate family man with specialized knowledge, criminal connections, and a five-year head start on planning his revenge against the company that destroyed his life."
"Which makes him significantly more dangerous than we originally thought," Oliver added. "If he's been building connections in the criminal underworld for five years, there's no telling what kind of resources he has access to."
Harry leaned against the elevator wall, his mind already working through tactical implications. "The question is whether he's planning one final score to fund his family's escape, or whether this is the beginning of a longer campaign against Queen Consolidated specifically."
"Either way," Oliver said grimly, "we need to stop him before anyone gets hurt. Innocent people shouldn't pay the price for my father's business decisions."
The elevator descended toward the parking garage, carrying them back toward a world where moral complexity had to be set aside in favor of practical necessity. The Royal Flush Gang had made their choice, regardless of the circumstances that had led to it. People were in danger, and stopping that danger was their responsibility.
But as Harry thought about Derek Reston's fifteen years of loyal service ending in betrayal and abandonment, he couldn't shake the feeling that they were dealing with something more complex than simple criminal greed.
Sometimes the real villains wore expensive suits and made their decisions in corporate boardrooms, leaving others to deal with the consequences on the streets.
The question was whether understanding that complexity would make their job easier or harder when the time came to bring the Royal Flush Gang to justice.
—
Later That Day - Mickey's Tavern, The Glades
The bar looked exactly like what it was—a working-class dive that had seen better decades, where honest people came to drink honest beer and forget about honest problems that couldn't be solved with paychecks that never quite stretched far enough. Mickey's Tavern occupied the ground floor of a building that probably violated at least seventeen city codes, with neon signs that flickered erratically and windows so grimy they filtered the afternoon sunlight into something resembling twilight.
Oliver Queen pushed through the heavy wooden door wearing clothes that would have horrified his usual social circle—faded jeans that had seen actual work, a plain gray t-shirt that hadn't cost more than most people's lunch, and a worn leather jacket that looked like it had stories. The transformation was remarkable; without the expensive suits and carefully styled hair, he could have been anyone—just another guy looking for a drink and maybe some conversation.
The interior was exactly what he'd expected—dark wood, sticky floors, and the kind of atmospheric cigarette smoke that suggested the smoking ban was more of a guideline than an actual rule. A handful of men occupied various stools along the bar, nursing beers and watching a baseball game on a television that probably predated the Clinton administration.
Oliver approached the bar with the casual confidence of someone who belonged, sliding onto a stool with practiced ease. The bartender—a grizzled man in his sixties with arms like tree trunks and the kind of weathered face that spoke of decades dealing with other people's problems—looked him over with the automatic assessment of someone who'd learned to spot trouble before it started.
"What'll it be?" the bartender asked, his voice carrying the slight rasp of a man who'd spent too many years in smoky rooms.
"Beer," Oliver said, keeping his voice neutral. "Whatever's cold."
The bartender nodded and produced a bottle of something domestic, popping the cap with practiced efficiency. Oliver took a sip and settled back on his stool, letting his eyes adjust to the dim lighting while his ears tuned into the ambient conversation.
It didn't take long to find what he was looking for.
"—still can't believe they just shut it down like that," one man was saying, his voice carrying the bitter edge of someone who'd had this conversation too many times. "Fifteen years I gave that place. Fifteen years, and they couldn't even be bothered to give us decent severance."
"At least you got something," another voice replied. "Poor Derek got royally screwed. Caught him taking some materials and used it as an excuse to throw him out without a penny."
Oliver's attention sharpened, though he kept his expression carefully neutral. The conversation was exactly what he'd hoped to find—former Queen Industrial employees sharing their grievances and, hopefully, some insight into Derek Reston's state of mind.
"Derek was a good man," a third voice chimed in, and Oliver recognized the speaker as a heavyset man in his fifties with calloused hands wrapped around a beer bottle. "Best foreman we ever had. If he was taking materials, he had a damn good reason."
"Reason or not, it gave those corporate bastards the excuse they were looking for," the first man said bitterly. "They wanted to clean house anyway. Derek just made it easy for them."
Oliver took another sip of his beer, considering his approach. He needed information, but he also needed to be careful not to reveal his connection to Queen Consolidated. These men had every reason to be suspicious of outsiders, especially ones asking questions about their former employer.
"Excuse me," he said, turning slightly toward the group of men. "I couldn't help overhearing. You guys used to work at Queen Industrial?"
The heavyset man studied Oliver with the kind of careful assessment that came from years of dealing with management types who thought they could solve problems by showing up unannounced.
"Maybe," he said cautiously. "Who's asking?"
"Nobody important," Oliver replied, which was both true and false depending on your perspective. "I'm looking for work, heard there might be opportunities with some of the guys who used to work there. Industrial security, that kind of thing."
It was a carefully constructed lie designed to appeal to men who understood the realities of making a living in an economy that had left them behind. Industrial security work—protecting warehouses, construction sites, anywhere that needed someone with experience and a willingness to work nights—was exactly the kind of employment that former factory workers often found themselves pursuing.
The men exchanged glances, and Oliver could practically see them weighing his story against their natural suspicion of strangers asking questions.
"You might want to talk to Tommy Chen," the heavyset man said finally. "He's been picking up security work since the plant closed. Good guy, honest work."
"What about Derek Reston?" Oliver asked, keeping his voice casual. "Someone mentioned he was a foreman. Might be worth talking to someone with that kind of experience."
The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken implications. Oliver watched as the men's expressions shifted from cautious friendliness to something harder, more protective.
"Derek's not in the security business anymore," the first man said carefully. "Last I heard, he and his family had moved away. Looking for a fresh start somewhere else."
It was a lie, and everyone at the bar knew it was a lie, but it was the kind of lie that protected people you cared about from questions you couldn't answer safely.
"Shame," Oliver said, taking another sip of his beer. "Sounds like he got a raw deal."
"We all got a raw deal," the heavyset man said, his voice carrying five years of accumulated bitterness. "But Derek got it worse than most. Fifteen years of loyalty, and they threw him away like garbage the first chance they got."
"What happened, exactly?" Oliver asked, though he already knew the answer from Felicity's research.
"Company was closing anyway," another man explained, his voice carrying the tired resignation of someone who'd told this story too many times. "Moving production overseas to save money. But they caught Derek taking some materials—metals, compounds, stuff like that. Instead of handling it quietly, they used it as an excuse to fire him for cause. No severance, no pension, no nothing."
"That's rough," Oliver said, and he meant it. "Man's got to feed his family."
"Exactly," the heavyset man said, warming to the subject. "Derek wasn't some criminal. He was a good man in a bad situation, trying to take care of his wife and kids. But those corporate bastards didn't care about that. All they cared about was protecting their bottom line."
Oliver felt the familiar weight of his father's legacy settling on his shoulders like a lead blanket. These men were talking about Derek Reston like he was a victim, and from their perspective, he absolutely was. A good man destroyed by corporate indifference, pushed into choices that had seemed reasonable at the time.
"You think he would have stopped if they'd handled it differently?" Oliver asked.
The men exchanged another round of meaningful glances, and Oliver realized he'd touched on something they'd obviously discussed among themselves.
"Derek was scared," the first man said finally. "Scared for his family, scared about their future. If the company had shown him some mercy, worked with him instead of against him... yeah, I think he would have stopped. He wasn't a thief by nature. He was just desperate."
The conversation continued for another twenty minutes, with Oliver carefully extracting information about Derek Reston's character, his family situation, and the circumstances that had led to his termination. By the time he finished his beer, he had a much clearer picture of the man behind the Royal Flush Gang—not a career criminal, but a decent person pushed beyond his breaking point by circumstances largely beyond his control.
Oliver left Mickey's Tavern with a heavy heart and a complicated moral equation. Derek Reston was dangerous, and he had to be stopped before innocent people got hurt. But he was also a victim of corporate policies that had destroyed hundreds of lives without considering the human cost.
As he walked toward his motorcycle, Oliver didn't notice the sleek black SUV that had been parked across the street for the past hour, or the two figures watching his every move from the front seats.
---
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