Oliver Queen
Feb 16th, 2013, 05:06:29 PM
They called it 'Applied Sciences'.
Oliver was in charge of the damned division, and even he didn't understand what that piece of corporate terminology was supposed to mean. In theory, his cadre of scientists and developers had a broad mandate to take whatever crackpot scientific theories that could contrive or find, and cobble together some sort of practical application for it. That process spewed out countless proof of concept prototypes, many of which had a price tag with more zeroes than Ollie's high school attendance sheet. Of that assortment, it was down to Oliver to decide which prototypes would be presented to the board, and passed off to Wayne Enterprises' various divisions to be turned into marketable products.
Of course, there were other responsibilities to Oliver's role that not even the Wayne Enterprises board of directors knew about. Sometimes, a prototype came along that was too dangerous or too useful to be allowed to find it's way into the hands of the public, or the military. Those prototypes had to be buried: buried so deeply in fact that they somehow managed to tumble their way into the Bat Cave of Gotham's most notorious vigilante.
Oliver's eyes glazed over as he tried to review the document on his screen yet again. Ever since his encounter (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=23060) with Gotham's new vertigo-inducing villain, he'd been reviewing every project connected with sonics, phonics, and every other synonym for sound that he could think of, in the hopes of finding some sort of defense, countermeasure, or counter-weapon to ready himself and the Batman for the future. Unfortunately, while Applied Scientists boasted some of the smartest and most educated experts on the planet, Oliver Queen was somewhat more of a layman: particularly in that while they had spent their youth becoming educated experts, he had spent his getting laid.
A grunt escaped him, and he swung down the screen of his laptop with a clunk. Loathed as he was to admit it, this was the kind of task that needed the attention of someone like Tommy or Bruce. He'd have to sneak the files off the Wayne Enterprises system, which would have been a lot easier to do if Bruce trusted him enough to give him the password to log into the Bat Computer remotely.
Now wasn't the time, though. He glanced at the clock ticking away slowly on his desk. Right now he had more pressing concerns.
10:53. He drew in a breath, forcing as much calm and casual energy into his body as he could before he spoke. "Mia -" he began, jabbing a finger into the intercom's talk button.
He was interrupted instantly. "Not yet, Mr Queen."
Oliver frowned. "You have no idea what I was about to ask."
He could almost hear his secretary's eyes rolling through the microphone. "You were about to ask if Miss Hall has arrived for her interview yet. It's the same question you've been asking every ten minutes for the last hour. And to answer your next two questions in advance: yes, I did get the flowers; and yes, I am absolutely sure that your lunch reservations are all fine and dandy."
A scowl would have formed on Oliver's face, if his expression weren't too busy trying to choose between embarrassment and pride. When they'd first met, Oliver had seen a lot of potential in young Mia Dearden and, aside from a few early missteps, she had done nothing but prove him right every day since he'd hired her. Of course, she was also frustratingly perceptive, and knew Oliver far better than he was comfortable having anyone know him.
He let out a sigh. "Thank you, Mia," he muttered. "Make sure you -"
"- let you know as soon as she steps out of the elevator, so that you can bustle out of your office as if you're super-busy, so she won't catch on that you've been nervously preparing for this interview all week?"
The silence that followed was distinctly smug. "Don't worry, Mr Queen. I've got your back."
A chuckle escaped from Oliver, and he forced himself to try and relax into his chair; to try and not stare obsessively and nervously at the seconds ticking past painfully slow on his clock.
"Remind me about this when it's time to calculate your annual bonus, Mia."
"Don't worry, Mr Queen," Mia fired back. "I'll add it to the list."
Oliver was in charge of the damned division, and even he didn't understand what that piece of corporate terminology was supposed to mean. In theory, his cadre of scientists and developers had a broad mandate to take whatever crackpot scientific theories that could contrive or find, and cobble together some sort of practical application for it. That process spewed out countless proof of concept prototypes, many of which had a price tag with more zeroes than Ollie's high school attendance sheet. Of that assortment, it was down to Oliver to decide which prototypes would be presented to the board, and passed off to Wayne Enterprises' various divisions to be turned into marketable products.
Of course, there were other responsibilities to Oliver's role that not even the Wayne Enterprises board of directors knew about. Sometimes, a prototype came along that was too dangerous or too useful to be allowed to find it's way into the hands of the public, or the military. Those prototypes had to be buried: buried so deeply in fact that they somehow managed to tumble their way into the Bat Cave of Gotham's most notorious vigilante.
Oliver's eyes glazed over as he tried to review the document on his screen yet again. Ever since his encounter (http://www.sw-fans.net/forum/showthread.php?t=23060) with Gotham's new vertigo-inducing villain, he'd been reviewing every project connected with sonics, phonics, and every other synonym for sound that he could think of, in the hopes of finding some sort of defense, countermeasure, or counter-weapon to ready himself and the Batman for the future. Unfortunately, while Applied Scientists boasted some of the smartest and most educated experts on the planet, Oliver Queen was somewhat more of a layman: particularly in that while they had spent their youth becoming educated experts, he had spent his getting laid.
A grunt escaped him, and he swung down the screen of his laptop with a clunk. Loathed as he was to admit it, this was the kind of task that needed the attention of someone like Tommy or Bruce. He'd have to sneak the files off the Wayne Enterprises system, which would have been a lot easier to do if Bruce trusted him enough to give him the password to log into the Bat Computer remotely.
Now wasn't the time, though. He glanced at the clock ticking away slowly on his desk. Right now he had more pressing concerns.
10:53. He drew in a breath, forcing as much calm and casual energy into his body as he could before he spoke. "Mia -" he began, jabbing a finger into the intercom's talk button.
He was interrupted instantly. "Not yet, Mr Queen."
Oliver frowned. "You have no idea what I was about to ask."
He could almost hear his secretary's eyes rolling through the microphone. "You were about to ask if Miss Hall has arrived for her interview yet. It's the same question you've been asking every ten minutes for the last hour. And to answer your next two questions in advance: yes, I did get the flowers; and yes, I am absolutely sure that your lunch reservations are all fine and dandy."
A scowl would have formed on Oliver's face, if his expression weren't too busy trying to choose between embarrassment and pride. When they'd first met, Oliver had seen a lot of potential in young Mia Dearden and, aside from a few early missteps, she had done nothing but prove him right every day since he'd hired her. Of course, she was also frustratingly perceptive, and knew Oliver far better than he was comfortable having anyone know him.
He let out a sigh. "Thank you, Mia," he muttered. "Make sure you -"
"- let you know as soon as she steps out of the elevator, so that you can bustle out of your office as if you're super-busy, so she won't catch on that you've been nervously preparing for this interview all week?"
The silence that followed was distinctly smug. "Don't worry, Mr Queen. I've got your back."
A chuckle escaped from Oliver, and he forced himself to try and relax into his chair; to try and not stare obsessively and nervously at the seconds ticking past painfully slow on his clock.
"Remind me about this when it's time to calculate your annual bonus, Mia."
"Don't worry, Mr Queen," Mia fired back. "I'll add it to the list."