The Gotham Globe

As Oliver watched the Queen Media Building loom into view through the rear window of Raisa's unassumingly boring sedan, he felt a knife of anxiety twist in his gut; the same sensation that he'd imagined his - what? His son? His ward? His newest project? Whatever it was, he'd imagined those feelings being experienced by Connor barely an hour before, as he embarked on his first day at Brentwood Academy. He'd felt guilt over Connor being forced to experience that alone, and he felt it doubly so now.

It was strange, being who he was and feeling apprehensive about something as trivial as a first day in a new job. He was a man who had faced down criminals, gunmen, metahumans, aliens, armed with nothing but a hood and a bow, his wit and wits, and an oh so charming smile; and he could do that without a fret or fear in the world, not for his own safety at least. The last time he'd felt anxious like this had been with Mia, back in the days where she was still young, overeager, and inexperienced; but even then, it had been concern for her, not for himself. Here at the Queen Media Building, none of those familiar dangers were lurking, and yet here it was that fear for his own safety gripped him. Perhaps it was because here he was not Green Arrow, but merely Oliver Queen. He had no hood to hide inside, no bow nor anonymity to keep him safe. He was exposed, and vulnerable, entering into an unfamiliar world that he was not prepared for. Even if this job that the Queen Consolidated board had crafted for him was meaningless, nothing but an empty title and a token office traded for the PR value of a Queen being back on the company's payroll, he still worried about screwing it up - both this job, and the clandestine investigation into what Queen Consolidated was secretly doing in his family's name - and making an ass of himself. What he did as Green Arrow, that was about him; and his successes and failures reflected only on him, and the identity that he had crafted for himself. Here, as Oliver Queen, the backlash targetted others. His failings and misdeeds would impact his father's name, and the company he had built; all the same things that Oliver sought to exonerate and honour. As Green Arrow, all he risked was his own life. As Oliver Queen, what he risked was his legacy.

Raisa seemed to sense his inner conflict; a frustrating habit of hers. He felt her gaze peering at him through the rear view mirror.

"I'll be fine," Oliver offered with a small smile, trying to convince himself as much as her.

"Yes, you will."

Raisa did a better job of sounding confident than Oliver did; but then, having more confidence in Oliver Queen than Oliver Queen had in himself was something of a low benchmark. It was the strange paradox that lurked behind the former castaway's eyes: at times he could be almost overconfident, so sure of himself and his capabilities; at others he was a walking manifestation of doubt, always questioning, filled with second guesses and regret. For Raisa, it translated into a simple truth: Oliver was confident in what he could do, but not in who he was.

She waited until she had pulled out of the flow of traffic before she spoke again, the tires of her car nudging gently against the cerb as she came to a stop. Her hands remained on the wheel, almost meditative as she collected her thoughts. There were many things she could say, many observations to make, many statements and arguments to disprove the doubts she saw written across his features; but there was a difference between what she could say, and what she should say. That was a fine line, and one she walked carefully; never overstepping, never speaking as if she knew more than she should.

A small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as Raisa found the right words. She didn't turn, didn't even glance into the mirror, but knew that Oliver would be listening.

"Five years ago, you returned from your island. You have been here. You have been home. But that?"

She didn't bother to gesture at the building ahead of them, the stylised Q of Queen Consolidated gracing the upper floors - she knew where Oliver would be looking.

"Today you will be where you belong -" The pause was subtle, but charged. "- Mister Queen."

Those two words tugged at Oliver's features: a faint smile on his lips; a faint sadness on his brow. He knew the words that he would always utter in response, and felt them dancing their way onto his tongue. Mister Queen was my father. It was a deflection. An evasion. A disarming self-deprecation. But that was the point, wasn't it? That was what Raisa managed to say, without saying it. Perhaps in the past, saying those words carried some truth to them, but today it would have been a lie. Today, he was Mister Queen. The name implied on the building ahead of them wasn't his fathers; it was his. So was this company, stocks and shares be damned. Robert Queen had left a lot behind when he had died: an emptiness; an orphan; a legacy; a son. Time to own that. Time to live up to that.

Oliver straightened a little in his chair; drew a breath; felt his fingers slide their way towards the handle of his door. "Thank you," he said quietly, and even with the cascade of warmth and gratitude that followed his words like a wave, it didn't feel like enough. The handle clicked, the door seal creaked, and the sounds of Gotham City began to leak into the car, a buzzing ambience of engines and echoes that felt warm and welcoming despite the October chill in the air. He hesitated for a moment, searching his thoughts for something more to say, but there was nothing. A faint breath of a laugh was all that escaped him. "I'll see you soon."

With that, the door swung wide, and Oliver disembarked without a glance back, a satisfying clunk sounding beside him as the door closed behind him. His feet found the sidewalk, and he stood perhaps a little taller than usual, a hand fastening the buttons of his jacket and smoothing it properly into place as he surveyed the scene before him. His eyes settled upon who he was searching for immediately; a woman with an uncanny knack for blending in only when she chose to, and now was not one of those times. He almost found her from the effect she had on those around her, a sphere of exclusion and avoidance that the Gothamite pedestrians striding back and forth between them knew better than to breach. Oliver encroached on it without hesitation, mustering his usual smile to his lips.

"You could have waited inside," he gently teased. Despite the formality of his outfit - nothing excessively fancy; just the kind of business attire with an unnecessarily inflated price tag that a man of his wealth and standing was expected to wear - he still dug his hands into his pockets; one part comfort, one part a deliberate act of irreverence that was part of the image of Oliver Queen that he worked to cultivate. "And don't look at me like that, you know why I had to ride in with Raisa. At least I let you drive the Mustang."

If there was one thing Gotham provided in absolute abundance, it was the variety of people that called it home. The city was an amalgam of cultures and ethnicities that existed side by side, though not always peacefully so. With that said, however, she still had not expected to find a small enclave of Japanese culture and store fronts. It reminded her of home - of the good things that entailed, and the terrible things that had led her to leave.

The shimmering device in her hand chimed and she lowered her dark gaze to the screen of her cellphone. The screen lit up, showing what would have been an idyllic family portrait had it been anyone else save for her own. It featured her husband Maseo laughing as the twins used him as a jungle gym, the last picture taken before everything had irrevocably changed for the worse. Tatsu breathed deeply, her stance shifting as she stood mostly still amidst the throngs of people that moved past the entrance of the Globe.

The message that had drawn her gaze had been a simple alert to the time, and the impending arrival of her employer. Flicking the alert to off, she pocketed the device and smoothed the tailored navy silk jacket into its proper place, slender fingers ensuring that no part of her ensemble was out of place. Matching slacks and a cream colored silk blouse completed the ensemble, and the faint click of her heels was lost amidst the foot traffic that broke around her slender frame.

Tatsu lifted a hand to ensure the decorative silver and red hairsticks remained in place in her bun, lingering briefly on the more decorative one of the pair. Her hands folded modestly at her waist as her gaze was drawn to a vehicle pulling up to the curb. In an instant, her stance changed once more, and though she had been given a wide berth before, it was even more pronounced now. For all that she stood barely over five feet tall, there was something in her features and the way she held herself that lent her that space and wary regard. Her professional face, as she preferred to call it.

There were other monikers, less flattering, that she had no doubt existed, but they served only to allow her to do her work. Tatsu tilted her head and nodded as Oliver approached, her features arranging themselves into a faint smile for several moments. "We're going to be very well stuck inside all day, I thought I'd savor the slightly fresher air and sunlight for a while beforehand."

"And she handled beautifully, I might add, so thank you for that. Shall we?" Tatsu continued, spinning neatly on a heel to accompany Oliver inside the towering structure.

Oliver managed to catch himself before a yes ma'am tumbled from his lips. Tatsu had that effect, on him and on others. She had a poise and a confidence that went beyond her nationality's reputation for regimented propriety, and radiated the sense that she was in control: of herself, of her surroundings, and probably the fundamental forces of nature while she was at it. She seemed like the sort of person who could make an avalanche stop in its tracks by politely explaining the inconvenience and her disapproval in its actions; and if that didn't work, Oliver knew from painful experience what happened to the disobedient when Tatsu busted out her ninja skills.

It was strange seeing her like this, though. She seemed so benign, so normal, so non-threatening. That was the whole point, of course. Oliver hadn't lied to Isabel Rochev when he'd explained his motivations for wanting to work for the institution that practised business in his name; but he had withheld some of them. As much as it felt right to be part of that legacy again; as much as he wanted to understand what his father had created, and what had become of it, in a way he had never wanted to in his youth; as much as all of that, this was a clandestine infiltration. Having exhausted their opportunities to study Queen Consolidated from the outside, this was their avenue to glimpse at the company from within. Tatsu was here to ensure that he did not do that alone; and while a role of bodyguard might better befit her skills and abilities, the two of them had agreed that it might earn her more attention than was ideal.

Oliver Queen's attractive Asian assistant, on the other hand? Discomfort twisted in Oliver's gut at the thought of it, but he knew that with his reputation, and the attitudes of the men who worked at a company such as this, such a woman wouldn't earn more than a second glance. People probably wouldn't even bother to learn her name, to save them the hassle of learning another when Oliver Queen, ladies man, grew tired and found a different skirt to follow him around.

Holding the door to the Queen Media building for Tatsu to enter first was the smallest, and only gesture of apology that Oliver could make in all this. It was not simply manners though, of course, for despite her presentation as nothing but an assistant, Tatsu was still here for his protection, from dangers that Oliver Queen was not supposed to be able to protect himself from; brief military career not withstanding, of course. Anyone who thought about it long enough would probably come to the conclusion that Oliver Queen must be quite capable and formidable, given all his experiences; but that was a slippery slope, and it led to conclusions and connections that risked exposure of the other side of his life. That was why the persona of Oliver Queen was so important: constructing a false narrative and false impression in people's minds, so that they dismissed him as nothing more than a stereotype. Should anyone try something, lashing out at Oliver Queen because of who he was presented to be, Tatsu would be there to handle the problem, and Oliver had complete faith in her ability to do so. And, if it was revealed that Oliver Queen's attractive Asian assistant was secretly a ninja? Well. Uncomfortable as it was, there were times when race-based stereotypes could be made to work in one's favour.

Following Tatsu through the door, using his manners as an opportunity to survey the Queen Media lobby for hypothetical threats before he entered, Oliver let himself drink in his surroundings. Oliver had been here before, years ago, back when the Queen Media building had simply been known as Galaxy Communications. Little had changed in the decade or two since, not even the decor. A few Queen Consolidated logos splashed here and there seemed to be about the only concession towards demonstrating that this was now part of the Queen empire. That demonstration seemed to be only skin deep as well. As with many of the corporations that Queen Consolidated and its various subsidiary umbrella corporations controlled, the original entities were allowed to operate almost without change or interference, and as such Galaxy Communications still operated under that name; and as the sleazy smile on the reception desk screen saver attested, still under the guidance of her founder and CEO, Morgan Edge. The only real alteration to the Galaxy ecosystem had been the addition of the Gotham Globe, a local tabloid that Queen Consolidated had previously acquired, now folded into operations under the Galaxy Communications banner.

It was one of the bigger questions that Oliver had begun to struggle with, since his investigation of Queen Consolidated had begun: why? Back when it had simply been Queen Industries, his father's technology had focused on technology, on computers, on consumer electronics. Under the Qi brand, Queen Consolidated still produced smartphones and smart devices, but they had branched out and expanded. It wasn't just newspapers and broadcast networks, it was pharmaceuticals, military contacts, construction and heavy engineering. Queen Consolidated owned mines, refineries, power stations, sanitation plants, theatres, music venues - they were about a sports team and an aeronautics firm away from matching - on paper, at least - the extent of Wayne Enterprises, though without the same degree of branding, recognition, and industry penetration. Was that all it was: a copycat effort by his uncle, the current President of the Board, to make himself feel as big and important as Bruce or Thomas Wayne? Was it some desire to collect, to have that token gratification of having a foot in every door, and a finger in every pie? Or was there more, something deeper, something that Oliver just wasn't seeing?

That was why Oliver was here. Eventually. But first there were hoops to jump through, steps to take, preparations to be made. The first being actually entering the institution he was supposed to be joining.

Oliver set his sights on the reception desk, but his attention was drawn away by a figure loitering in the lobby by the elevators, scanning the faces that were coming and going as if they were looking for someone. Oliver didn't recognise the man, though he recognised the type: the bottom end of corporate; not young enough to be an intern, but not old enough to have been forced into surrender by a dead-end career; average height, unconventionally attractive if you were into that sort of thing; but most importantly, human. It was easy for a place like this to suck the humanity out of a person, to make them cold and harsh, resigned to the monotony and inevitability. This man, whoever he was, still had a brightness in his eyes; still had his soul left intact.

With a quiet gesture to Tatsu, Oliver abandoned his trajectory towards the reception desk, and steered towards the waiting man instead. An easy smile was already locked and loaded, and he unleashed it without hesitation.

"Let me guess," he offered warmly. "You're waiting for me?"

One of the things Ray enjoyed about working for the Gotham Globe was the fleeting feeling of importance he felt, climbing those smart stairs every morning, tapping a merry rhythm across the immaculate lobby floor, and pretending not to admire the potted ferns while he stood shoulder-to-shoulder with greying media moguls and square-chinned captains of industry. It was the suit, more than anything; he enjoyed a good suit, when the cut was clean, and it framed the shoulders just right, there was no other feeling like it. And, for just a few seconds, every day, he walked amongst giants, and, maybe, to the untrained eye, just maybe, he could be mistaken for one, himself. But, once the muzak-free ride was over, and he stepped out of the elevator, onto the 16th floor of the Queen Media building, he was Raymond Terrill once more.

And, all things considered, being Raymond Terrill was not a bad thing. He had his own place, he a job, he had friends, which was great because, if he ever felt the need to forget about his box room in Robbinsville, his deadbeat landlord, or the creeping existential dread of an unfulfilled career, then at least he had people to help him reach the bottom of a glass. That was the important stuff covered, right? The rest was easy: site maintenance, data protection, malware scans, software updates, trouble-shooting, emails, formatting, image-editing, spell-checking, and 'Have you turned it off and on, again, for the love of god, Diane?' Yep. Once those elevator doors drifted shut, not even the afterglow of the morning's power walk or the reassuring butt-hug of his best suit could keep the drudgery at bay.

And why was he wearing his best suit on an especially dull Tuesday morning, like this?

That man, right there. Oliver Queen. Ray tried not to watch, to make it look like he hadn't seen him or the petite beauty who led the way inside. He found himself wondering if he felt that same thrill of significance and visibility, making the brief climb into a place like this, or if that was just his natural state of being. A knot of nervous tension was unravelled with a controlled breath, only to disperse like a thousand fluttering butterfly wings. Sheesh. Come on. Wasn't that just an expression?

You see, when it came to Oliver Queen, and Ray, there was... a history.

Growing up, Ray didn't have a whole lot of friends. Not because he was weird or had poor hygiene or anything like that. It was the unfortunate by-product of being the only son of two over-protective parents who elected to live in butthole of Old Gotham. Granted, it wasn't the Narrows, but, it was a scary place, a rat's maze of strangers and shadows buried beneath towering tombstones of steel. It was like his old man always used to say: "Son, it's bad out there. One day, you'll understand." So, Ray was homeschooled: algebra, George Washington, sex-ed, and Shakespeare from the comfort of the kitchen table; he found companionship in cartoons and comic books, and spent his teenage years cooped up in his sweat box of a bedroom, listening to Green Day, Weezer, and the Backstreet Boys.

It was tough, and he resented his parents for their overbearing ways. It made sense in the end, he supposed. But, for the longest time, it felt like his whole world comprised of the same four walls. In open rebellion, he plastered posters across every square inch until the faded sky blue paint was gone; bands, cars, superheroes, Friends, and, of course, the holy trinity for every 90's boy: Britney Spears, Sarah Michelle Gellar, and, with pride of place above his bed was C.J. Parker herself, Pamela Anderson Lee. It wasn't until years later that Ray discovered the truth behind his sheltered upbringing: his parents knew he was different, they just didn't know how different. Because Pamela had a secret...

With a practiced flurry and the application of a well-worn thumb tack, the glossy pin-up was pinned up to reveal another bronzed beach beauty. Oliver Queen had always been a figure of fascination for Ray, the handsome rebel who did whatever he wanted, wherever he wanted, with whoever he wanted; his attitude, his whole persona, encapsulated the spirit of resistance that many people his age identified with, and he had the money, the cars, and the girls to do it all in style. Sure, he wasn't doing anything important, but he certainly looked good doing it. And, like his Baywatch counterpart before him, Oliver was standing on a beach, with sea water in his hair, and flecks of sunlight glistening across his bare skin; the lapping tide had teased the waistband of his red shorts just below the hips, and he was brooding, annoyed that his private moment of recreation had been snapped by a greedy photographer - it was a stunt, of course, but it all added to his bad boy mystique. And sure, it was just a picture, but it also represented a life that was out there, waiting for him, and he could reach it, with a little imagination, and lots and lots of tissue.

"Mr. Queen. Good morning," Ray's rehearsals paid off, his voice was firm, and their hands met with a confident clap, "My name is Ray Terrill. I'm from the Gotham Globe, and I'm here to give you the grand tour."

In one hand, he clasped a pair of security lanyards for Mr. Queen and his assistant, to whom his now-free hand was offered in greeting, "Miss Yamashiro? Pleased to meet you."

Ray Terrill. Ray. Terrill.

Oliver rolled the name over in his mind, trying to make the vowels and consonants stick. An ability to memorise names was an essential skill for a wealthy socialite; something that Oliver had always been terrible at. With women, he hadn't stuck around long enough the next morning for names to matter, and with everyone else Oliver simply hadn't cared. He'd coasted through life on looks and charm, and he'd survived.

The Army had changed that. One of the few things he could genuinely thank his Uncle Bill for was the way that military service had beaten those attitudes out of him. He still played the part at times, still acted the playboy socialite when it suited him; but he had more of an appreciation now, more of an interest in people, more of an investment in who they were and what impact his actions might have. Unfortunately, the skills he'd failed to develop in his youth were now painfully absent, and every name he filed away took a conscious and deliberate effort. It mattered, though. When he'd made it home, when he'd set foot in Star City again, after all those years spent alone he understood how much it mattered when someone remembered your name; when someone remembered who you were. That was the least he could do, the small vigilante service that Oliver Queen could provide that Green Arrow could not.

His smile broadened; practised, perfected. "The pleasure is all mine, Ray. Ours," he ceded, with a nod of his head towards Tatsu.

"Nice suit," he added, with a genuine nod of appreciation. It wasn't the suit of a tour guide, that was for sure: maybe not corporate elite levels of high fashion, but a nice suit. A good suit. A clearly I have made an effort suit. Not only that, but he wore it well, too: filled out the shoulders, carried himself the right way to set it off; not quite to an Oliver Queen level of handsome effortlessness, but pretty decent for a mere mortal. Roy could learn to stand a thing or two from this - Oliver faltered. Young man? Up close, getting a read on Ray's age was even trickier.

"I hope we're not keeping you from anything too important."

"Nothing I can't make up in good time." Ray offered a polite smile, navigating his answer like a tightrope, between the pitfalls of sounding inconvenienced, or giving the impression his time was of little value to the company. He was talking to his potential future boss, after all. With a gesture to the smart logo above the elevator doors, he added, "Besides, I believe that's your name on the wall. Whatever lands on my desk, today, can wait."

The smile broadened, knowingly. No point in tiptoeing around the obvious: today was a big deal for Queen Consolidated. Part of him wanted to swell with pride at being asked to usher the Oliver Queen around the building, on his first day, to be the face to make that all-important first impression, but the other part, the one that kept his ego in check and the intolerable shining optimist at bay, that part quietly reminded him that the only reason he was on executive babysitter detail, in the first place, was because his services would not be required for another hour. That was when the new stories started to flood in.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Your security clearance." Both Oliver and Miss Yamashiro were presented with a lanyard, each bearing their own laminated ID card. "Don't worry, I vetted the photos, myself. They're head shots to make your mom proud."

It took all of a second for Ray to remember who it was he was speaking to, and his smile faltered. One of the many things Oliver Queen was famous for was being tragically orphaned at a young age. Outstanding work, Terrill. Perhaps, if you're lucky, you'll discover that Miss Yamashiro watched her dear old mother being mauled to death by a tiger, too. He cleared his throat to dislodge the foot from his mouth, and turned a stiff quarter on his heel, to face the elevator doors, where he willed them to open. After about 6 months, there was a soft ping, the doors opened, and they stepped inside. The other suited employees maintained a respectful, perhaps reverent, distance from the prodigal son, which meant it was just the three of them. It was the perfect opportunity to ambush them with a cheeky elevator selfie. Of course, that never happened, because Ray remembered in time that he was not, in fact, a 12-year-old girl.

In the mirrored interior, he caught a glimpse of himself, and allowed for a self-satisfied tick of a smile. He did look good, and Oliver had noticed, too. Well, he'd complimented the suit, which was close enough. His insides had done something strange, in that moment, as if the thousand butterflies has burst into explosive colour like the 4th of July. He was returning to his senses, now, and it was everything in him to keep his gaze from wandering south - to take full advantage of that magnificent 90 degree reflection from behind. In the end, he was able to resist because he knew Oliver Queen looked good in a suit. No proof was necessary.

"I'll start with my neck of the woods, if it's all the same to you." He the button for the 16th Floor, "Are you interested in journalism, Mr. Queen?"

"Journalism is certainly interested in me," Oliver countered. A glib response, perhaps, but a valid one. Even in his youth, he hadn't been able to escape them. Insidious photographers clamoured for photos outside his parents' wake, wrestling for one glimpse of the freshly orphaned billion-heir. Wherever he went, whatever he did, someone put in a phone call and the cameras swarmed, photos flooding the tabloids, and then the internet. Parties. Nightclubs. Late night liaisons. He couldn't even spend a weekend on the beach in Coast City without someone with a telescopic lens snapping a candid image of him in a pair of swim shorts. And for what? What value was there in a poorly posed snapshot of him shirtless? What difference did that make to anyone's life?

Before it had all ended, before the cordon of a military security perimeter came to his rescue to keep the paparazzi at bay, Oliver had reached the point of not caring. He posed. He smiled. He waved. Flipped the bird. Went about his business, trying to zone it out. He told himself the same thing that the photographers, and the masses, told themselves to explain their fixation. It was the price of fame; a tax upon the wealthy and successful. You knew what you were getting into - part of the job, part of the life, even if you were born into it. At times he had believed it. At others, it made him sick.

The Island had changed things. His stay in Purgatory reframed the context of his entitlement. If the public craved candid images of Oliver Queen, then so be it: he would exploit that; twist it to his advantage; ensure that every candid shot came with a footnote that meant something, that told a story worth telling, that shone a light onto things that were too easily ignored. Oliver poised himself beside the blights and embarrassments that Star City was reluctant to admit to. He let them photograph him helping troubled neighbourhoods, working at his community center, volunteering to coach with underfunded youth sports teams. If they wanted photos of him shirtless, they'd need to catch him helping to rebuild a playground on a hot day. If they wanted to expose his late night exploits, they'd have to snap him returning the school bus he'd volunteered to drive to the depot, because Star City High couldn't afford to pay their regular driver for the extra hours. Yeah, he could have lived his life like Bruce Wayne: bought a bank, founded a charity, thrown money at the problem. That wasn't his style. He was about substance, not just gestured. If the world wanted to watch his every move, so be it. They could watch him trying to be a better man.

"But me in it?"

Oliver frowned for a moment, giving the question a few minutes of due consideration.

"Honestly, I'm not sure. I dated a reporter from Metropolis, a few years ago. She told me that journalism was about truth: about showcasing reality, and letting the world decide for itself what that meant. I was a little too preoccupied with being naked at the time to disagree, but it's something that has stuck with me, and that I've wrestled with since. It sounds noble in principle, but I don't think it's that simple. Newspapers don't lie, necessarily, but they can choose to frame the truth in a way that warps how that reality appears. Truth, honesty, and reality are all different things, and it can be hard to tell when one is being substituted for the other."

A small chuckle escaped, with an accompanying half-smile.

"Sorry, Ray. You were probably hoping for small talk, not a sound bite."

While Oliver spoke, Ray micromanaged his response, from the slightest nod down to the length of time he dared to hold his gaze. Eye contact was important, for sure, but so was listening, and what Oliver Queen was laying on him, in that moment, was some real good shit. It was certainly something to meet your childhood hero, but to hear him speak in a language that resonated on such a profound and personal level? Well, that was something else. He drank in his words, and waged war against the childish grin bubbling to the surface, pounding it into something neat and conservative. And, when Oliver apologised, that placid satisfaction leapt with urgent sincerity.

"Oh, no. No, not at all, Mr. Queen. I appreciate your candour. It's... refreshing."

Pleased with his assessment, Ray gave a nod of approval. The Gotham Globe was not renowned, locally or nationally, as being the high-water mark of journalistic integrity. And, sure, Raymond Terrill was no Lois Lane, but that didn't mean they didn't share the same values. Maybe it was the career-minded aggression he lacked, or the snappy punchy prose style, but the need to seek out the truth, to challenge injustice, and shine a light into the darkest corners of the world was as integral to his being as the blood in his veins. To think that someone like Oliver Queen, with all of his wealth, prestige, and influence, believed in the same things he did, it gave him hope.

"There is a, uh, uncomfortable truth to what you say. It's a common trait of all media to pander to the interests of the people, giving them what they want, rather than what they need. Can't make a newspaper, if no-one is buying what you're selling, I guess." There was an apologetic undertone to his words - they were not his own, but rather, ones he'd learned by repetition - he shrugged it off, "But there are good people, here, Mr. Queen. And I think they'd be interested to hear what you have to say."

The elevator doors parted with a cheerful ping, and before them stretched an expansive bustling newsroom of clean whites and and smart greys, a convoluted network of desks, cabinets, and partitions, illuminated by the pale morning light, and the soft glow of countless overhead monitors; the space was dissected by the fervent traffic of fiery career-makers and red-faced interns, while seasoned veterans moved amongst them with jaded certainty. Over the ceaseless fury of typing, phones rang, orders were barked, and paper rustled from ever corner of the room. It fell on Ray's ears like music, like the sound of home. He shot Oliver a wry grin.

"You should've seen the old place. It was all CRT monitors, rolodexes, coffee, and donuts. I swear there was even a typewriter."

A small, private smile cracked on Oliver's features. "I did see it actually," he admitted, keeping his voice just low enough that it wouldn't travel much further than the immediate vicinity. "Though only the once, and I spent most of that visit in the stock room wrapped up in the legs of an intern called Eve."

With that comment left to hang in the air, Oliver stepped out into the Gotham Globe workspace, letting the atmosphere wash over him. It wasn't what he had imagined; but then, his imagination was tainted by old movies and television shows, and the 21st Century came with considerably less suspenders and typewriters, and far more of those cardboard Sundollar coffee cups with the lopsided plastic lids, as well as one of Oliver's bigger pet peeves - men in shirts, without ties. It always seemed so pointless to him: the smart pants and the nice shirt, coupled with an open collar that usually showed off whatever generic cotton tee you happened to be wearing underneath to help soak up the work sweats in the summer, and stop your nipples chafing in the winter. Corporations seemed to think that shirts without ties walked the tightrope line between smart and casual; your employees looked professional, but also comfortable and at ease. To Oliver, it was bullshit. By all means, dress casual and comfortable outside of the office; but in the office, either go all-in, or just let your staff show up dressed in whatever the hell they liked.

Perhaps it was an odd reaction, particularly for someone who'd spent his teenage years trapped in an overly formal Brentwood uniform, and his twenties having to worry about the strict regulations of Army attire; but in truth, Oliver liked it. Dressing well was a crutch, a harness that made it easier to carry yourself in a better way; and if a shirt and tie was uncomfortable, you needed to buy better shirts, or admit to yourself that your neck was too fat for the collar size you were wearing. In an office environment where there was no specific uniform, you had options, choices, the potential to throw in a little flair. Oliver had fought the urge to go with the green shirt, green tie combination; instead he'd gone for something a little more simple, a deep red with the occasional diagonal line of gold, something to allude to the costume colours of Roy and Mia - a little reminder of them that only he could translate. His sleeves carried a similar significance; mismatched cufflinks, one each from a set that each had bought, when utterly stumped for something else to buy a man who could afford to buy on a whim anything he wanted or needed. The sentiment wasn't just that they were from them: it was the notion that Roy and Mia had each chosen from a selection whichever one they thought he'd like, whichever one they thought would suit him best. Roy's choice was plain, practical, and stylish; Mia's came with a little flair and fun. As much a reflection of them as of Oliver; and a gentle reminder of who he was to both of them every time he glanced at his sleeves.

Ordinarily, Oliver would have been content to slip into a space like this unnoticed. It wasn't that he was averse to attention - he didn't thrive on it in quite the way he had in his youth, but he was certainly more than used to it by now - but being noticed came with problems. It made it harder to see people for what they truly were, to observe their natural actions, to witness them while they weren't putting on a show. People watching, some folks called it. For Oliver, it was more than that. It wasn't curiosity, or prying, or even some latent aspect of his vigilante persuasion; it was about seeing life, seeing people, being always reminded that there was someone around, someone alive, someone to see. As a child, he hadn't cared enough about the community around him. As a soldier, he'd cared more about who he was fighting than who he was fighting for. Death, survival, and resurrection had changed all that. He had returned to the world with a renewed appreciation, and a renewed perspective. As the Green Arrow, he fought to protect people; but as Oliver Queen, he indulged in the opportunity to care, both for and about. Every one of these people had a name, a story, hopes, dreams, ambitions, struggles, and secrets. The old Oliver wouldn't even have realised, let alone cared. The new Oliver was determined to compensate for that.

"That is a lot of people. A lot of names." Oliver let out a slow breath, mentally preparing himself for what lay ahead. "I'm not very good with names, Ray."

His gaze shifted, throwing a momentary glance towards Tatsu.

"Name badges. I'm allowed to insist that everyone wears name badges, right?"

In his adult life, Ray prided himself on being a positive friendly person to be around, someone who liked to brighten someone's day with an easy compliment, or an amusing story, or a shameless joke; compensation for lost time, his pragmatic side reminded himself, and this was true, but it didn't stop him from enjoying good company, from taking the time to laugh, or to appreciate a small act of kindness. And, while Ray didn't like to draw too much attention to himself, he was not one to shy away from bawdy conversation, or to find his arsenal of ice-breakers lacking. Indeed, rare were the occasions when Ray Terrill found himself at a loss for words, however this was such a time. It was not for lack of trying, either. Oliver Queen had just imparted on him a cheeky snippet of information from his more sordid past, and, under almost any other circumstances, Ray would have been there, ready with a witty remark, the icing atop a lewd cake. That was why his mouth was still open, half-fashioned into a smile, half catching flies.

What might have been a throwaway moment of banter had transformed into an obstacle as real as a toppled tree in the road. With as much subtle dignity as he could muster, Ray navigated away from the stubborn mental image of Oliver Queen in a state of undress in the intimate confines of the stock room, and rejoined both him and the conversation in earnest.

"Don't worry, Mr. Queen. I don't think you're expected to remember the names of everyone in the building. Just the important ones." He punctuated his wisdom with a shrug of the shoulders that was poised effortlessly between care-free and smug. Whether it was flattery or coincidence that Oliver had happened to use his own name, it didn't matter. Ray would get his kicks wherever he could. The act was dropped when someone caught his attention.

"Although," he said, pointing out a thin man with grey curly hair, and a determined hunch, as he pored simultaneously over three separate publications sprawled out across his desk, "You would do well to acquaint yourself with Sully Adams, sometime. Been around since the Stone Age, I reckon. Sharp as a tack. No nonsense. No compromise."

The weathered octogenarian snapped up a thick red marker, circled something, and tore out the page with one clean practised ritualistic motion. Ray shook his head, "One of the best in the business. Single-handedly blew the Saxon & Reed money laundering scandal out of the water, last year."

On the wall, there was a framed front page print of the Globe, which declared 'Saxon & Reed: The End of a Criminal Empire'. He gave it a nod, and sunk his hands into his pockets.

"It's where we all aspire to be, one day. Well, most of us."

Oliver gave the remark perhaps more consideration than it was due. What precisely was the aspiration, Oliver wondered? Was it the framed article? The front page? The prestige of a story that brought about real change? Those were the positives, but as Oliver's eyes studied the indicated journalist, he couldn't help but notice the negatives. The tired eyes. The unkempt hair. The sour demeanour. The fervour and desperation in tired and sunken eyes. Ray Terrill saw an aspiration, a role model, a star to shoot towards. Oliver saw a man whose entire life, entire purpose, boiled down to a non-stop quest for the next story, the next flash of recognition, the next hit of the elusive drug that was journalistic prestige.

Quietly, Oliver wondered which of the two of them was right. As defined, Sully Adams was at the pinnacle of his profession. Was that what one should aspire to, then, pre-eminence in a chosen field? The respect of peers and critics alike? Oliver couldn't help but note the absence of a wedding band, the loose skin and loose clothes and darkened eyes of someone whose self-care came secondary to their work. He recognised the obsession, too, the single-minded focus, unpleasant flashes of unpleasant iterations of his own reflection dancing through his mind. Surely there was more to aspire to in life than professional success and acclaim?

"If a framed article on the wall is what you're after," Oliver quipped, "I know a guy down on 12th who'll cut you a good deal."

His thoughts lingered on Ray's words for a moment longer. Most of us. Oliver wondered whom Ray's words set out to exclude. Was it a confession that Ray's own ambitions lay elsewhere, perhaps? A concession that politely discounted Oliver from inclusion among the journalistic masses? A subtle dig at the lackluster effort or ethics of certain peers? Oliver felt the urge to probe, to chase the potential lead, to uncover an accurate understanding of exactly what Ray Terrill had meant. That was a mindset that required a different wardrobe, however; or at least, it did the way that Oliver usually approached such things. Somehow, and arrow-point interrogation didn't quite seem like the correct route forward.

"Is that where you see yourself?"

Bluntly personal questions were more the forte of Oliver Queen's public persona. When you were born into money, people expected you to act with a certain sense of entitlement when it came to information.

"You don't strike me as the lonely workaholic type."

"No-one ever said it was glamorous, Mr. Queen," Ray said flatly, studying Oliver with a sharp sideways glance. The facade broke and the easy smile returned as he conceded the point, "A healthy work-life balance is important, it's true. But if there's one thing I'm certain of it's that Mr. Adams goes to bed every night safe in the knowledge that the sum of his life's work is about more than just paying bills. We have the opportunity to make a difference, here, Mr. Queen. A real difference. Now, how's that for job satisfaction?"

Ray was folding his arms, surveying the bustling office space with the quiet affection and pride of a parent watching their child at play. The words came easily, for he'd said them time and time again. And, while it was true that he wasn't about to see his byline on the front page of a paper any time soon, his faith went undiminished. All he needed was that one chance to prove it to them, to prove it to himself, that he too could write a killer story and make a positive change to someone's life. That was the magic of the printed word. Still, for all his hot air, Oliver had asked him a question and he'd still not answered. His smile faltered a fraction, shrinking into something coy.

"As for me? Let's just say I'd be lucky to get column inches in the gossip section. Bowie Isn't Dead, He's Just Returned to Krypton." His hand swept across the imaginary headline before him, and punctuated it with a click of his tongue. Then, upon remembering he was addressing his potential future boss, he reined in the cringe, and replaced it with an apologetic look. "Yeah. Ray Terrill, resident tech lackey. I maintain the website and keep all of our hardware in check."

Before he deflated fully, he added, "I get a byline on the site, sometimes. Nothing frame-worthy, of course, but it's a start."

The tone of Ray's voice, subtle but present, twisted in Oliver's gut. The romanticism that Ray applied to the elderly journalist made a new kind of sense: a reverence for a man who'd spent a long lifetime living what Ray aspired to.

Oliver understood the premise, though he struggled to relate to it; almost envied it, in a way. Oliver had spent too much of his childhood and youth being a rebel, fleeing too fast from responsibility to ever respect or notice the exploits of anyone he now sought to emulate. His idolatry had focused on the fictional, on outlaws and folk heroes, often so enamoured with their acts of rebellion that he barely noticed the underlying principles and morality that went along with them. Even archery, an infant obsession born during a family vacation to the ancestral Glenmorgan home, had been little more than a game: he'd celebrated those who practised it, but had never once even considered applying his personal talents towards anything that seemed like work.

Lian Yu had changed all that, first transforming a childish game into a means for survival, and then beyond that into something else. Violence. Vengeance. The viciousness that had defined the early stages of his return to the land of the living. In the years since, he strove to walk that transformation backwards, harkening back to the playfulness of youth, an effort utterly exemplified by a special kind of arrow tipped with a tiny boxing glove. It was an effort to bring levity to a situation so serious that it had literally become a matter of life and death. Oliver did not aspire towards something, the way that Ray did: Oliver aspired away from something, to differentiate himself from what he had been, and find a way to become something else.

"Well," Oliver offered gently, carefully aiming around various poor word choices that might alter their conversation for the worse, "If your nefarious plan to change all that is to ingratiate yourself with the new Publisher, you're off to a good start."

He maintained a solemn expression for half a second, before allowing a smile to crack and expose the intended humour. He paused for a beat longer, a last lingering moment of contemplation spared towards Sully Adams before he cast his gaze back out to the sea of desks, and cubicles, and unfamiliar faces with potentially familiar names that, as yet, seemed either oblivious or disinterested in his presence. In the grand scheme of things, he supposed he mattered very little to the people here. He was the new Publisher, there for administration and finance, firewalled from having any sort of influence over stories and content by the Editor. The status quo would barely change: he was merely a body in a chair, a different name and face to go along with the same policies and procedures that Queen Consolidated and Galaxy Communications had adhered to ever since their purchase of the Gotham Globe. Aside from the novelty value of being Oliver Queen, his appointment was about as relevant and newsworthy as hiring a new head of HR: they'd need to acknowledge and accept it eventually, but it was something best deferred for as long as possible.

"Anyone else I need to be aware of, Ray? Any weirdos or wildcards I need to try and avoid getting stuck in an elevator with?"

Perhaps it was a kindness, Ray thought, that Oliver Queen had changed the subject so promptly and with such casual charm. And, as much as he wanted to just go with the flow, Ray was stuck, knee-deep in his own sheepishness. The news that Oliver was to be their new publisher wasn't exactly earth-shattering - his presence alone was cause enough for speculation - but nothing had yet been officially announced. Even on the surface, his remark about Ray ingratiating himself to the new boss had been off-the-cuff, and, up in his head, he knew there was nothing more to it. But in his heart, he ached for certainty, and recoiled at the thought that Oliver Queen himself might, on some level, suspect him to be a shameless opportunist. He had to clear things up, and, for a moment, his question went ignored.

"Well, congratulations on the new appointment, Mr. Queen," he said, a little short of breath. They were shaking hands again but he couldn't quite remember when they started, or who instigated it. Once done, he raised his hands in defence, "And, for the record... I like my job. I didn't mean anything when I said... what I said. It's good ambition. Wholesome ambition. American ambition - but not in the cutthroat Wolf of Wall Street kind of way! Okay..."

Opting for a tactical segue, away from the ridiculous, and back into the realms of relevancy, Ray's face brightened as he surveyed the room. He pointed to a curious-looking man who sat with his feet propped up on the desk. He was wearing the Converse, again. In one hand, there was a colourful mug, in the other, a sheet of paper, which he elected to hold aloft, to be scrutinised from below. Ray was already shaking his head.

"That stringy guy in the suit, over there. The one with the glasses and the sand shoes? Vic Sage. Never came across a conspiracy theory he didn't like, but I guarantee you won't meet a more enthusiastic journalist in your life." On cue, Vic sprung upright in his chair, slammed the paper on his desk and began typing furiously. Ray grinned despite himself, and glanced back to Oliver, "A word to the wise, Mr. Queen: if he mentions the alligators in the sewers, don't ask. And over there! See?"

This time he pointed out an older man, wearing a faded grey jacket and a check shirt, who had purpose in his stride as he vanished inside the editor-in-chief's office.

"That, right there, is Mr. Concrete Proof himself. Walt Johnson. Guy's a freelance force of nature. Keeps to himself, mostly, but what I wouldn't give for that man's sources. His stories are airtight, everyone of them. If you want information, Walt's your man. Unless, of course, you prefer a woman's touch?"

Ray allowed his eyebrow to climb a telling fraction, leaving the innuendo to hang there a delicious moment, while he swept the room for a familiar face. He frowned.

"Huh. Looks like she's not around, right now. Iris West-Allen. She's... well, you would know all about Iris after all, wouldn't you?" He smiled, recalling a certain TV interview bookmarked in his favourites folder, back home. When he met Oliver's gaze, he dropped the familiarity and adopted a professional indifference. He gave a shrug, "I mean, who doesn't, right?"

Oh, Ray. Poor, sweet, vulnerable, beautiful, quite possibly descended from puppies, Ray. Oliver saw the downturn, saw the fluster, and felt a pang of guilt for the part he'd played in it. He would have addressed it head-on if Ray had given him the opportunity, headed those insecurities off at the past if he'd had enough time to figure out what they were, but Ray brushed the possibility aside with the sweeping arm of professionalism, and Oliver allowed himself to respect that.

His eyebrows climbed at that last name. Iris West-Allen. Oliver didn't quite know all about Iris, not in the way that matched the innuendo that Ray had left hanging, at least, but he certainly knew her, and she knew him. It felt like a lifetime ago, that interview when Oliver Queen had first returned from the dead. She wasn't the first journalist to try and farm his experiences for a story, wasn't the first to try and coax him into an interview, but she was the one who had succeeded. She was still only Iris West back then, and while her exclusive conversation with Lazarus had been an important step forward in her career, for Oliver it had been an important step forward of a different kind. He'd kept the words that finally breached his resistance with him ever since.

You have a story. What is the point in that if it never gets told?

Something close to that, at least. The sentiment was there, but Iris had probably been more eloquent about it. She always was. It wasn't their only interview together, either. Like a good reporter, Iris had leveraged the trust she's earned for every quote, statement, and scoop she could get her manicured little claws into. Oliver didn't mind. This was how she saved the world, and she was just as tenacious about it as Oliver was about his own tactics. Professional courtesy, and all that. Fighting for justice in their own way.

"Iris West-Allen," he echoed to himself, thoughtfully. His brow furrowed. "I thought she was meant to be in Central City?"

"Not anymore. Not since she signed the new deal with GNN."

Ray was starting to settle into his role as the Gotham Globe's unofficial tour guide now, and, pleased that he was able to provide Oliver with relevant information and answer his questions, he started to relax again. He was observing the ebb and flow of the newsroom at Oliver's side, arms folded, speaking in an undertone so as not to come across like a shameless gossip to the rest of his colleagues. However, when silence punctuated his words, and stretched out like an unspoken question, he glanced Oliver's way again.

"You don't know? Iris moved to Gotham not so long ago. Got herself a new TV show, Gotham at Midnight. The network has given her carte blanche to pursue whatever story she wants." They were walking again, sticking to the periphery of the newsroom to avoid the bulk of its traffic, "You can see the appeal though, right? The draw of a television personality to boost the network's numbers, and, for Iris, well, I figure she's after Lois Lane's crown."

Remembering himself, he looked hastily to Oliver, and backpedalled, "That's all speculation, of course. It's not like we talk. No, Iris comes and goes as she pleases. She is around, though. I saw her earlier. There's a meeting, later today, and she won't want to miss it. Finger on the pulse, and all. Oh, look."

Ray nodded at an office door marked Publisher, as they came upon it. As yet, it was nameless.

"It's your new home."

There were three kinds of management, or so Oliver had previously thought. There was the closed door kind, who lurked secret and unseen behind opaque walls, absent and undisturbed until something went wrong; there was the open door kind, who invited distraction and attention; and then there was the no office at all kind, the sort who floated around, ever present, eager to exist among the people they paid.

Now, Oliver learned, there was a fourth kind: the glass walls kind. Nestled into one corner of of the newsroom workspace, the solid walls that separated the Gotham Globe from the rest of the floor suddenly turned transparent, revealing a space that was as much lounge as it was office. A few couches around a coffee table blocked an easy pathway to a desk framed in screens and displays broadcasting every channel and feed that Galaxy Communications had to offer. Off to one side was a well-stocked bar, and to the other stood sliding doors that granted egress to a balcony overlooking the city. From what Oliver Queen knew about the man he was to both succeed and work for, this was a Morgan Edge sort of office: pretentious, lavish, showy, expensive.

For a moment, Oliver allowed himself to wonder about the glass, and the mindset that had guided Edge's design choices. Was it a window that allowed him to look out upon the newspaper he had purchased, to watch his investment as he worked? Or was it more for the benefit of those looking in, the opportunity to gaze upon the wealthy socialite who bankrolled their opinion, but kept away at a respectful distance by the barrier of glass? There was no valid reason for it, so far as Oliver could fathom: the Editor-in-Chief, the meeting rooms, those surely all lay elsewhere. There was some sort of hubris involved, Oliver was sure of it, even if he couldn't quite figure which particular direction it leaned in.

"Home?"

Oliver shook his head as he echoed the sentiment that Ray had presented.

"What kind of a person looks at a fish tank, and says: you know what? I'm gonna put my desk in there?"

"Like a king, surveying his kingdom."

Despite the critical intention of Oliver Queen's words, Morgan Edge seemed unphased, all too happy to twist the words into a self-serving compliment. It was what he lived for: the spin and subjectivity of the media, the currency upon which he had built his career and fortune. There was an electricity to it, a power that came from understanding that the power to reinvent the narrative lay in the palm of your hands. Granted, he had always left the Gotham Globe to its own devices, letting them live up to the reputation they had established for themselves, as the scrappy little newspaper unafraid to be the David flinging stones at the Goliaths of Gotham society and governance. It was why he had acquired them, and why he had built this office for himself among them, so that he could sit, and watch, and loom, like a living portrait hanging over them as a living reminder of what they were now part of.

Edge had other offices, of course. Ever since the merger with Queen Consolidated had lined his pockets, his responsibilities to a wider objective demanded his presence at Wayne Tower as much as anywhere else. When he was here, back in his old dominion, he chose to cloister himself behind the defensive lines of the Gotham Globe. It was tactical, and perhaps cowardly in a way. In the foyer, the conference rooms, and every other open space that they could find, Queen Consolidated had exchanged their emblem for his, a constant reminder that Galaxy Communications was now subservient to a higher corporate power. But here, among the reporters of the Gotham Globe? In the studios and newsrooms for GNN a few floors above? There, his legacy was preserved, firewalled against Queen Consolidated encroachment by the importance of branding and identity. The Gotham Globe needed its sovereignty to function, and so when Edge had hired the designers to carve out this space for them within the Queen Media Building, he had tasked them with crafting that sovereignty into a shield. In this office, Edge could feel safe in the knowledge that he was still a king, even if that king had sworn fealty to a more powerful empire.

"Or like a Queen, I suppose, in your case."

He offered an easy and discomforting smile, that belied the sentiments he felt beneath. Despite his best efforts, he had been outmanoeuvred, Queen Consolidated finding a way to usurp him from this particular sanctuary of power after all. Instead of the Queen logo hanging above his desk, however, he would have to tolerate the Queen heir sitting at it instead. He had to hand it to them: they had exploited the opportunity well. He didn't disagree with their decisions, either. When Oliver Queen had arrived at the Queen Consolidated offices asking for a job within his father's company, the Board had been faced with a dilemma. The company had long been taken public, and Oliver Queen's death at sea had stripped him of any legal claim or control. Yet, the Queen family shares of the business were interwoven with his inheritance, which had passed to the incumbent President of the Board: Oliver Queen's uncle, William Glenmorgan. Whether Queen's money, and his shares, should be restored to him was a complicated web of legality, and so an arrangement had been made to smooth things over. For a decade, all parties had seemed content, and by rights, Queen Consolidated could simply have turned Oliver away at the door. Thanks, but no thanks. There would have been nothing Oliver Queen could have done about it.

Except, of course, Oliver Queen was Oliver Queen. He lacked the wealth his family had once had, but still possessed the name, the recognition, the celebrity. If Oliver Queen told the world that his family business had turned him away, that he'd come to Gotham looking for an honest way to feel closer to his lost parents, that he wanted to feel in some way part of and accountable for the way in which his name was used? It would have been so easy for Oliver to present a narrative where Queen Consolidated were the villains, and in the court of public opinion, truth and technicality were secondary concerns. The blow to their reputation, and worse, the increased scrutiny it might place on Queen Consolidated, was the last thing that they needed.

And so, another deal. Like a monarch appeasing an unruly prince, the Board had found Oliver Queen a dukedom to preside over: a position of almost absent consequence, enough prestige to seem as if the Board was paying due respect to the origins of their business, with so little influence, responsibility, and access that even Oliver Queen couldn't find a way to screw it up. All it had cost was Edge's fortress of insolitude. A steep price, but one worth paying.

"Though if we're going with fish tank analogies, I'd much rather think of myself as a shark in an aquarium than some forgotten Nemo fish cluttering up the shelves of a suburban teen's bedroom."

He offered a hand in the direction of his usurper.

"Morgan Edge. Welcome to the family. I trust Roy here is doing an adequate job of showing you around?"

"Ray."

The introduction provided with a lot to unpack. Thus far, he'd only had the fortune - misfortune? - of dealing with the likes of his uncle, and whatever proxies and subordinates Uncle Bill had seen fit to use as avoidance tactics. The Board of Directors for his father's company were, currently at least, a mystery to him, beyond the mental version of them that he had been able to construct from their public personas, financial records, and gossip columns. With Morgan Edge, he'd known to expect shrewd, opportunistic, and the greasy kind of charismatic that left you feeling the need to wash immediately after a conversation. You could learn all that from the kinds of politicians he helped finance, the way his charitable giving focused on whatever causes would earn the most positive PR for a given year, and the content of his occasional op-ed contributions to the Gotham Globe.

In person, Oliver was able to learn more. You could see it in his eyes, and hear it in his voice. It was not some persona, an outward visage adopted to maximise profits, concealing the true reality beneath. Spend enough time around the Bruce Waynes, Barry Allens, and Clark Kents of the world, and you got a feel for those sorts of things. Oliver had grown up around people who'd grown up to become Morgan Edges of their own. Needy. Greedy. Insecure. Ambitious. Arrogant. They were the fake it until you make it types, the people who believed that the first step in convincing others of your bullshit was to wholeheartedly believe it yourself. There were people who were superficial, people who lacked commitment to the persona they portrayed; and then there were people like Edge, the method actor approach to public perception. Morgan Edge was not a disguise that was shrugged off behind closed doors, the way that Oliver Queen was. Edge was the real deal, and every second that the offered handshake lasted was a second too long for Oliver's tastes.

Despite all that, the name was what offended him most. It was a subtle difference, an o for an a. It was a mistake that Oliver would probably make himself from time to time, particularly given the significance of a particular Roy in his own life. But when Oliver made a mistake like that, it would be an accident. Edge making it was something worse, because of why he had attempted to use Ray's name in the first place. Edge was CEO of a company that employed thousands. There was no way he could possibly know the name of an employee working IT for one of those constituent parts. No one would ever have expected him to know that; it was not possible to be that sort of employer. Yet, Morgan Edge pretended to be. He'd put effort into trying to portray himself in that manner, learning the name of whomever the Editor had asked to show Oliver around; and despite that effort, he still got it wrong. He still didn't care enough to truly commit to that effort; and, even though Oliver had called him out on it, he knew that Edge would simply shrug it off. At least he had tried, that would be the mindset.

Part of him wanted to respond in kind, to refer to Edge as Megan, or Michael, some cutting retribution for Edge's own arrogant error. That was the Green Arrow thing to do, but not the Oliver Queen thing. While Oliver Queen was charitable, personable, and far more attentive than the stereotype that Morgan Edge embodied so well, he was also diplomatic enough and tolerant enough to hold his tongue in situations like this.

"He hasn't steered me wrong so far," was what Oliver settled upon, keeping his voice polite, but to the point. He allowed a brief pause to follow, mustering enough inner strength and control of his gag reflex to muscle through the next sentence. "To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr Edge? Something I can help you with?"

Edge had danced this dance enough times to know when he was being politely handled. He supposed he couldn't blame Queen for it: Edge had chosen this ambush deliberately, there to catch Queen off balance before he had the opportunity to find his feet and settle in. It was no wonder then that the trust fund heir apparent should feel intimidated.

At the same time, it was less deference and reverence than Edge had hoped for or expected. True, everyone knew the reputation that Oliver Queen had, both before and after his island sabbatical, but Edge had entertained a quiet hope that his own status, his own reputation, his own celebrity would be enough to earn some genuine respect from his usurper, beyond the obligatory bottled version that Queen was required to provide. Edge was not deluded enough to have expected starstruck, but was it too much to expect a little bit of overt surprise, rather than a greeting as benign as if they'd just been introduced as a fundraiser?

Edge considered his options, looking for ways that he could continue to control a situation that didn't seem to want to be urged in any direction at a particular pace. It was like trying to herd cattle, except that the cows were more interested in disinterestedly chewing grass than in stampeding away from the oncoming horses.

His gaze settled on Roy, Ray, whatever, standing helpfully and patiently as a silent witness to the exchange. Edge fought against a small smile at the recognition of someone vulnerable, someone he could assert dominance over even if Queen wasn't willing to grant him the satisfaction of that feeling.

"Would you mind giving us a moment? Mr Queen and I have important things to discuss."

* * *

She checked the mirror once more and laughed as her father came around the corner. “I can't help it, Oli... Mr. Queen is not just some guy. He's the owner of the company, Daddy. And about to be my new boss. I have to look my best.”

Her father shook his head. "I didn't say anything. But if you keep looking in the mirror, you are never gonna finish your breakfast. And I made it just for you.”

Jesse shook her head and moved from the mirror in the livingroom to the kitchen bar. Sitting down, she cocked her head at her dad. "Chocolate chip pancakes, Dad? Really? It's not the first day of preschool, ya know.”

Her dad reached over to take the plate. "All right, all right, I'll eat them. You grab a cheap coffee and stale bagel like the rest of those runners downtown.” He let out a overly dramatic sigh and grinned as she grabbed the plate back. “Thought you didn't want them.”

"I didn't say that.” She batted her eyelashes and he let go of the plate then reached over and handed her the syrup.
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An hour later, she grabbed up her purse and turned as her dad stood in the hall with her. “Do I look ok? I mean, I want to be professional but not slutty.” She smoothed down the blue and black blouse and ran her hand over the hip of her deep black slacks. Boots of deep sapphire blue that matched the blouse finished the outfit. The small heels on them making them practical for running around the office.

Her father stepped up and took her fidgetting hands in her his own. “You are beautiful, Princess. Now, get going. I can't wait to hear about your day when you get home.” He kissed her forehead and shooed her out the door.

Making sure she was out on the street getting into the waiting car to take her to work, he went back inside and pulled out his phone. “Yeah... she's gone. She'll do what needs doing. I'm sure of it.” A pause as someone spoke on the other end. “No, she has no idea we set this up. She thinks her application to the internship program placed her there. And it's gonna stay that way. I doubt she would appreciate being set up.” A few more grunts and he hung up.

__
Jesse's car pulled up in front of the Globe and she glanced up at it with the giddiness of the first day of school. Her driver opened the door and helped her out. “See you tonight, Marcus,” she said with a smile. A tipped hat and nod of agreement were her reward as she turned and strode up the steps.

After a moment with the front desk, she was given her badge and sent to the elevators. She opened the door and was assailed by the sights and sounds of the office atmosphere. Folks scurried about with their fact checking and find printing, all hoping to make the afternoon press. And others ran around doing the bidding of those above them.

Eyes of sapphire blue, framed with ebon hair, gazed around the room and paused on the small cluster across the expanse of half walled cubicles. Oliver Queen was there! Her heart almost skipped a beat. And Mr. Edge. She had met him briefly at some function last year her father had taken her to. In the absence of her mother, Jesse had accompanied him to several functions that didn't require the obligatory 'eye candy' style date that only the best money could buy for the evening. She bit her lip realizing she had no idea if she was supposed to go straight to Mr. Queen, himself, or look for someone further down the food chain to help put her in her place.

It was an unspoken rule that when a man like Morgan Edge makes a request, he's really issuing an order. There was no wiggle room for consideration or compromise, no matter how jealously Ray coveted his time with Oliver Queen; in the grand scheme of things, he was a nobody. It was the illusion of equality, and his concession in turn, the humble retreat, the polite smile, was just another part of the performance. The thin-lipped smile stretched with genuine warmth when he met eyes with Mr. Queen one last time, coupled with an almost imperceptible nod of gratitude. Ray, he had asserted to Mr. Edge, like it was something important. It was enough to dispel any sense of dejection he might have felt, staring at a closed door, and put a shameless spring in his step as started weaving his way around people and desks, back towards his office.

That was when he saw her, the girl by the elevator. Well, woman, he supposed. She sure was a looker, by anyone's standards. Raven-haired, and with the bluest eyes. Anywhere else, and she'd be sure to turn heads, but inside the newsroom, there was only distinguishing feature that people recognised: she was new. It was all in the look, attempting to scope out a new place to see where you might belong, while at the same time trying to not look like a little lost lamb, to look instead like you belonged, and that one day you may indeed run the place. He saw that same fresh determination in the new girl's face. And, while the Gotham Globe wasn't the most prestigious of publications, it was still very much a part of that cutthroat world of journalism, and in that world, a newbie was worthless. Worse still, a newbie was a hindrance. After all, what use was dead weight on a deadline? That was where Ray stepped in:

"I recognise that look." He paused to assess the damage, to determine if he was dealing with a bold tigress or a quavering kitten. With a knowing smile, he offered her a hand, "Hi, I'm Ray. Welcome to the Globe."

She had seen Oliver disappear into the fish bowl office and changed her focus. Looking around the room she tried to suss out the various sections. She wasn't sure what she expected, but it wasn't easy to where one section of the paper ended and one began. Was that man writing for sports and that one for economics? Or was that one of the social writers and that one a restaurant guide? While part of her mentally sighed at the inability to make heads or tails of the clusters of desks and tables, another part of her thought it was a good thing. Perhaps the hubbub of the room and the jumbling of personnel made production more cross threaded and less cliquish. Maybe that was the secret of the paper... making everyone set on equal footing so no one rose above the bottom line... the stories.

Her eyes caught the man coming towards her and for once, someone other than Oliver, caught her interest in the room. Everyone else had merely been a writer, reporter or info checker. But this man, she wasn't sure what roll he played, but she had seen his look at Oliver. Since he seemed to hold the man in such high esteem, he obviously wasn't all bad.

Her own smiled retort was equally genuine. "The look that says I'm helpless and lost, someone help me... yet trying to be invisible at the same time? Yeah... I know that is such an obvious look that it's hard to miss." She took his hand and shook it. While it wasn't a the practiced handshake of a man of power, for a woman, it was pretty confident and firm without being overbearing like the was compensating for something. "Jesse, Garrick. I'm supposed to be starting today with Oli..Mr. Queen as his assistant, today. But I see my first day timing is horrible." She nodded towards the men cloistered in the glass encircled office. "Makes me wonder if I shouldn't have stopped for coffee." She laughed and it was as genuine as the handshake.

Ray shrugged, "No reason we can't go for coffee, now. I know a place, just around the corner. My treat."

Leaving no room for objection, he backed off, and gestured with a nod in the direction they were to go. The elevator was ignored, the stairwell bypassed, instead Ray turned a corner and led Jesse to a remote pocket of the newsroom where there was a lonely table populated with a stack of styrofoam cups, an assortment of creams and sugars, and a half-full jug of hour-old filter coffee. He was greeted by the rich bitter aroma of overbrewed coffee beans the moment he lifted the jug from the hotplate. Sure, it was no artisan blend from a hipster's paradise, but it was better than nothing. He poured them each a cup.

"You're in luck, Jesse. It's Mr. Queen's first day at the Globe, too. Looks like you'll be able to figure things out, together. Once you tear him away from Mr. Edge, that is."

And me.

It wasn't that Ray resented her position as the newly-appointed assistant of Oliver Queen. He liked his job. It was fine. Nevertheless, her sudden and unexpected arrival had significant implications for his own allocated quality time with their new publisher. From Morgan Edge all the way down to Jesse Garrick, competition was everywhere. He frowned then.

"Garrick," he said, with some consideration, "That name sounds familiar. Have you worked for the company, before?"

Jesse followed him around the corner, her mind trying to map the floor wondering about back exits and such. When he entered the small alcove where the smell of the coffee was unable to escape, and therefore was strongest, she smiled. "Oh, this is wonderful, Ray. My first day and already privy to the poshest place for coffee on the floor. You flatter me." She laughed and set her bag down on the back of one of the chairs and lifted the semi biodegradable cup in her hands like the finest china. "I hear drinking from these enhances the flavor." She wriggled her eyebrows teasing, then patted his arm affectionately. "You sure know how to flatter a girl on a first date." She laughed and held her cup for him to fill.

As he mentioned her and Oliver finding their way together, she shook her head. "Somehow I doubt that is how it will be. In light of things, I had hoped you would, possibly, be able to help in that arena. My guess is you were showing Mr. Queen around when he was absconded by that man in the suit." The wordy description hinting at distaste though respect. "My guess is you are better suited to help Mr. Queen settle in. I will just tag along, if you have no objections, that is." She smiled and sat in one of the chairs. "If I'll be in the way, I'm certain I can do something relatively close to occupational, while you help him. Then afterwards, I can entice you with delectable coffee so you will then impart such wisdom on me." She wasn't condescending. In fact it was just the opposite. She knew that her place at Oliver's side this early was probably more of a hindrance than a help. Having Ray there would certainly help matters go much smoother.

His question about the company made her shake her head and her smile faltered a moment. "No, I haven't. My father is a Quality Assurance Officer with Queen Consolidated, though. But he travels so much I doubt anyone around knows him well." She mentally shook herself again. Leave it to her dad to once more place her in 'his' shadow so it always came back to him. At this point, she was used to it. She smiled once more and looked at him. "So tell me what you do here." The last thing she wanted to do was talk to someone about her father. This was her chance to be out on her own and not in his shadow. She just hoped Ray wasn't a fan who would drive her insane with questions about her sole parent.

"I am Mr. Digital Media." He took a seat on the table, it was clean, after all, and it meant he could snap upright at a moment's notice, "I coordinate with each of the various teams to ensure the Globe's website is kept up to date, and running smooth."

The coffee was too strong, but warm enough to drink and be a part of civilised society. One day he'll switch to cream, that's what he kept telling himself. He watched Jesse take a sip, and wondered how it might sit on her sophisticated palate. She was making a striking first impression: a confident woman, it seemed, to whom wit came quickly, and words, in abundance. He sensed there was more than a little tongue in cheek when she spoke of tempting the wisdom from him with coffee. Flirty, too. That was always fun. However, the way she negotiated the tenuous line between her new role as Mr. Queen's assistant and his temporary role as the welcoming committee was impressive. It was well-played. Shrewd. Inwardly, he grinned. Miss Garrick was one to watch out for.

"So don't go getting the wrong impression of me, now," he said, with some amusement, "It's not everyday I play tour guide to the stars. I'm just the IT guy."

After a moment, he conceded, "Although, if you happen to have Bruce Wayne's number, hook me up."

She laughed and nodded her head, "Bruce? Oh yeah, me and Bruce go way back," she then winked at him, "as in the only time I met him was on his way back to the bar at some gala my father took me to." She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs at the ankles like a proper lady. It was habit and she made it look grateful and almost flawless. But chances are, no one else in the office sat that way. "To be honest, I've danced with him once and all he talked about was this great new car he had with all the latest gadgets and upgrades. When it was over, it was over." She shrugged, "He got a drink and another girl. But if you're serious about wanting to meet him, I'd be happy to make you my plus one at the next boring get together of stuffed shirts."

Might be nice having someone by her side not talking business all the time, she thought. "And as for 'just the IT guy', I'm sure you aren't giving yourself enough credit. I don't they'd hand Mr. Queen over just anyone. I would think The Globe had better sense than that. But I'm also betting your skills are more than just hooking up desktops and interlinking fiber-optics into mainframes." She finished her coffee and set the cup down. "I give it a 5... Fairly decent taste, but lousy to dance to." She smiled again just for him.

"Dancing with Bruce Wayne." Ray was impressed, and his eyebrows did the talking, "You're a dark horse, girl."

He raised his syrofoam cup in a toast. Under any other circumstances, he might have doubted the validity of such a claim, but there was something about Jesse that suggested she wasn't the sort to fabricate stories for attention. She had an effortless kind of class about her that was typically the byproduct of having a privileged upbringing. Coupled with her talk of attending galas and the like, he could certainly picture a woman like her rubbing shoulders with the great and the good of Gotham.

Garrick, he repeated to himself. She said her father worked for the company but neglected to mention his name. Ray couldn't make out what it was about that name that bothered him, like he'd heard it somewhere before, but upon reflection, he recalled that the number of quality assurance officers he knew was precisely zero. It wouldn't do to dwell on it, anyway. He saw the way her smile faltered at the mention of her father. No surprises, there. In Gotham City, daddy issues were a dime a dozen. Well, whoever he was, he sounded like the kind of guy to move in some exclusive circles.

Ray nursed his drink, and considered the woman across from him, "I think he's going to like you. Mr. Queen. He seems to be a good judge of character."

Satisfied with his assessment, he gave Jesse a nod, and glanced back to the office where both Mr. Queen and Mr. Edge were sat in conversation. It looked like he and Miss Garrick had some time to kill.

"Hey, Jesse. Want to check out my place?"

"I don't know about dark horse, Ray," Jesse laughed. "To be honest, I wasn't impressed. He seems more caught up in himself and anyone who is the same." She winked and whispered like she didn't want anyone to hear. "I think the fact I didn't feint in his arms at getting to dance with him turned him off." She nodded like it was a big inside secret.

"I'm sure you're a better dancer, anyway."

As he mentioned Oliver being a good judge of character, she glanced back where the mentioned new boss of hers was. "I hope so. I've seen him at a couple galas as well, but never danced with him." She glanced back at Ray and laughed. "Don't even know if he 'owns' a car"

"Your place, huh?" She smiled once more and nodded. "I'd love to. Doesn't seem either of us are needed, presently, anyway." She rose up and offered to toss his coffee cup as well. She's then pick up her coat and bag and motion for him to lead the way. "After you, my dear IT man," she smiled and inclined her head on deference to him.

Ray led the way from one corner of the expansive office space to the other, weaving between people and desks; he went largely unnoticed by his colleagues at the Globe, but there were friendly faces to be found, a nod here, and polite smile there, but give it time, he thought. Time and experience had a way of robbing the kindness from people, draining them of their unique vibrancy until they blended into a background of washed-out shades of grey. He would not be that person, he'd promised himself, even if it meant a lifetime of unremarkable mediocrity, he'd never sell his soul for a byline.

"This is me," he said, turning on his heel outside a door marked Digital edia. The M fell off long ago, but Ray didn't mind, because it gave him the opportunity to say, "This is where I get all my great edias."

The door swung open, and like a gentleman, Ray allowed his new lady friend to step inside first. They found themselves in a small, but crowded office that had the warm static smell of overworked servers. With a snap, the stark glare of fluorescent lights chased away the gloom, revealing nests of treacherous cables that snaked in black rivers around the outskirts of the room. There was one desk, upon which there sat a keyboard, a monitor, a laptop, and an unpleasant angular lamp. Everything in there was designed to be unpleasant and angular. He brightened up the place with a small potted cactus plant that boasted red and violet flowers, and a single framed picture of his parents looking handsome and sun-kissed.

"Make yourself at home," he gestured to one of two chairs, and fell into his own, drifting lazily on tired wheels behind his desk, "So, Miss Garrick, why the Globe?"

Jesse followed behind Ray, her own ability to worm between the desks a bit less graceful and fluid as her counterpart. At least she didn't bump anything over or knock into a desk or person. As they arrived at the room, a genuine smile lit up her face. "Corner office... very nice, Mr. Terrill." She smiled and nodded gracefully as he offered to let her enter first.

Her smile actually grew brighter as she was illuminated along with the small alcove of an office. The cables seemed right at home and she couldn't have imagined him behind some mahogany desk with a cushy chair behind it. This was exactly as she imagined his office would be. Chaos in motion. She set her bag on the floor by the door and rested her coat over the top of it. Moving to the offered chair, she looked around and saw that despite the lack of personal items, this had Ray written all over it. The precision of the cables, the neatness of the desk, even the cactus spoke of a man who liked his environment to be efficient and neat. "I'm impressed. So is all this," she gestured to the snaking cables and computer monitors, "simply an intranet set up for the Globe, or can you also access outside systems as well?" It was an innocent enough question, and she tried to keep her face neutral and smiling. But as she awaited his answer, her lips murmured as she figured out the end of each cable's origin and destination. "Monitor... mainframe... power cable..."

"Oh," With some surprise, Ray followed Jesse's gaze to the myriad cables on the floor, "Internal and external. Gotta stay connected, after all. It's a big small world."

When his attention returned to his companion, there was a playful suspicion in his eyes; it had not escaped his attention how she neglected to answer his question, and instead changed the subject to something decidedly less probing. Jesse Garrick was a puzzle to be solved, then. With a flurry of keystrokes, the computer was unlocked, and a double-click later, the Daily Planet's website appeared: a utopia of sophisticated web design, with smart interactive widgets, seamless video integration, crisp navigation menus, a robust customer relationship management system, and outrageously fast loading times.

"Plus it allows me to keep tabs on the competition. The Gotham Gazette has a team of six working on their site, and the Daily Planet has ten!" He shrugged, not caring to point out the obvious nature of their surroundings, "We still got some work to do."

Again, he spotted Jesse eyeing up his hardware, and with studious fascination. His eyebrow's climbed with reserved interest.

"You got a thing for tech, Jesse?"

As he punched up the computer, Jesse got up from her seat and moved behind his desk. Pulling her hair behind her ear to keep it from brushing against him, she leaned over to his left and propped one arm on the desk as she eyed the Globe's page. "The Gazette has four. The other two are figureheads because their parents make huge grants and that is a job for their college resumes. And The Planet, well," she tilted her head to smile at him, "I wouldn't worry about them. They are too busy fighting for accolades amongst themselves to even bother with anything resembling real news."

She stood back up and crossed her arms. "So are you one of those straight as an arrow boys who simply does his job?" She turned to lean on the edge of his desk, her arms still crossed over her chest. "Or are you one of those who likes to see what he can get into when no one's looking?" She nodded to the wiring bundles around the room. "Something tells me some of these aren't technically necessary. Are they?" She cocked her head and grinned. "And as to 'why The Globe?'... because Daddy wants me here. So there has to be a reason." She broke eye contact and looked past him out the window. "Jay Garrick doesn't do things for no reason." She lost herself a moment as, once more, she tried to try and figure out why her dad had been so adamant about her working here.

"Jay Garrick," he repeated, brow creased, "I swear I've heard that name before. Maybe he has visited this place..."

The thought trailed off and was dismissed. Ray sat in ponderous silence for as long as he politely could, considering his next move. It seemed it was Jesse's turn to dig; her brazen question left no room for ambiguity, or at least not in a way that was hideously disingenuous. There was a part of him that was cautious; she knew just what to say, to appeal to his ego by disregarding the work of his more prestigious contemporaries, to tease him with the romanticism of being a rebellious outsider, to delicately corner him by pointing out the excess of hardware. She was good. Dangerously astute. He knew her kind: if he denied her now, she'd dig deeper. His only recourse was to yield something to her hunt.

"Okay. So, you know how I said I'm the I.T. guy?" He rose from his chair, and slowly circled the room, "What I really want to be is a reporter. The next Lois Lane... Perry White... Vicki Vale. And to do that I need a story. A great story."

He was standing beside a large detailed map of Gotham City that was suspended from a metal housing on the wall. With a tug of the drawstring at the bottom of the map, the whole thing retreated, rolling itself up into the housing and out of sight. Where there was once an unremarkable street map, an entire wall, busy with pictures of masked and hooded vigilantes, clipping of news articles, police reports, annotated floor plans, hastily sketches drawings, sticky notes of every colour. And to finish off the effect, to give it that authentic paranoid conspiracy theory flair, there were even lengths of red string, connecting various items in a fledgling web of ideas.

"Superheroes. Vigilantes. Big boy scouts, dark knights, scarlet speedsters... and Robin Hood." He smirked, despite himself, as his gaze landed on a grainy CCTV image of a hooded man with a bow and arrow in his hands. "Yes, they are the good guys, but they are also part of something dangerous. There is another world out there, of secrets and lies, designed to protect us from the truth. And the truth is... something very weird is going on in Gotham City. Am I right?"

"Wouldn't surprise me if he had," she sounded non plussed as she responded his comment about her father.

Jesse stood back as Ray moved past her towards the board while taking of wanting to be a reporter. "I can see that," she smiled thinking he was off to a good start.

Good start because GREAT start in her mind as he revealed his map of activities and pictures. "Yes..." She answered his question without even thinking.

As her eyes scanned the board, her hand moved to follow each that just over the surface. Her lips murmuring as she recognized various locations. When he pointed out the CCTV still of the Arrow, Jesse's breath hitched. She moved closer and her hand rose to touch the corner of the printed still as if checking it was real. Her bottom lip slid between her teeth and she shook her head slightly. "That was taken at the Queen Gala last month, wasn't it?"

She looked at him then looked back. "See this," she pointed to the upper corner of the picture. It had been taken in a hallway and the room in the upper corner was barely in view but one could see legs and bodies gathered. Women's legs were bare fancy shoes and dresses. Men were in tuxedos and black shoes. One couldn't tell who was who, just that a large gathering of bodies want but fifteen feet from where the hooded figure was rushing from. "That's me..." One of the dresses was ankle length and dark with a light viney pattern that was hard to discern in the picture. But there was a gold leg band winding from ankle to calf of the wearer.

Her breathing was shallow and hitched like she had been startled. He had been right there... So close...

She moved back till her backside hit the desk and she rested on the edge of it. "I was there... That close to him." She frowned and looked at him. "Wasn't that the night of the Commerce Bank robbery?"

"You have a sharp memory, Miss Garrick."

Ray was watching her closely, his gaze alight with admiration, and quiet amusement. True to her word, there was Jesse on his wall, mingling with Gotham's most influential and well-to-do. She didn't seem put out by the prestigious circles in which she often found herself. And it seemed she was unafraid of a little bling, too. Good for her. In fact, the only thing that appeared to give her pause was the image of the Green Arrow himself, who had been so close to her that night. He recognised that flutter of exhilaration anywhere, and decided it was clear duty to tease:

"Shortly after this picture was taken, the Green Arrow intercepted a high-speed chase, and single-handedly brought each of the thieves to justice. No casualties. No fuss. Just plain skill. And to think you had been so close!"

He seasoned his words with a sympathetic tsk, and perched himself on his desk behind Jesse, arms folded, enjoying himself far too much.

"The Green Arrow in Gotham. But why? What business does he have here? Is he working with the Batman? Who is looking after Star City in his absence? And... the most important question of all: what does he look like under that hood?"

A rhythmic rap of knuckles sounded against the open door, as Oliver Queen poked his head into the room. His eyes settled on Ray, and offered him a flash of a smile, one that took on a slight mischievous hint of innuendo as his attention took account of the female companion Ray had apparently snuck into his office.

"So this is where you ran off to."

Oliver lingered in the doorway for a moment, organising his thoughts into something to say. Something nice to say, specifically, about the dark and gloomy tech-filled box that was apparently Ray Terrill's office. Were it not for the sign on the door - and perhaps more importantly, the fact that the door was open and the person he'd been looking for was clearly visible inside - he might have walked past, dismissing it as nothing more than a broom closet. Apparently, this was the kind of respect and importance that the Gotham Globe placed upon its digital media program, and on the radiant personality of the individual that comprised its entirety.

Digital edia, he noted, the hand that had knocked lingering beside the cheap vinyl letters that, despite looking extremely tacky, apparently weren't quite tacky enough to remain properly affixed to the door. Words formed in Oliver's mind, and for a split second, he felt a pang of disappointment that his daughter wasn't here to groan in dismay at them.

"So this is where you get all your bright edias, huh, Ray?"

Oliver chuckled to himself as he invited himself inside, though not far enough to seem like an overt intrusion. It was intrigue that pulled him in, an interest in the kind of details he could discern about the man that the Globe had assigned as his tour guide. He took note of the somewhat antiquated tools that Ray had available to him. Oliver was no expert on technology - no stranger either; his modest wealth and fondness for gadgets and gizmos made sure of that - but much of what he saw in Ray's workspace, keyboards, monitors, and the like, was comfortably familiar to him. That was usually a bad sign: if Mr Desert Island was familiar with things, odds were they were embarrassingly out of date.

It was the board that drew Oliver's attention most of all, though. It was like something straight out of a TV drama, a wall of weirdness, photographs and news clippings pinned to a street map and connected by strings into a web of conspiracy that, the more Oliver's attention lingered, the more inadvertent truth he managed to recognise in the patterns and implied conclusions. With as much disinterest as he could muster, he tore his eyes away, choosing to focus instead on the more personable mystery in the room: Ray's apparent lady-friend.

"Hi there, I'm Oliver Queen."

Oliver's smile resumed, his eyes offering her his undivided attention. Without his gaze deviating, he indicated to their surroundings with a tilt of his head and shift of his eyebrows.

"What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"

Jesse had been about to make a remark to Ray that included warts and boils being the reason the Arrow covered his face, when suddenly Oliver knocked. Realizing her slip into unprofessionalism was almost seen by her new boss, she bit her lip and thanked her stars for her hesitation.

As the man made a corny comment to Ray, she almost felt bad. Those letters on his door were probably the butt of many jokes. And here it was, repeated again by someone they were both to look up to. It almost made her giggle.

Then suddenly those eyes were on her and the corny line was directed at her. Unfortunately, Jesse's foot went straight into her mouth anyway. "Looking for Mr. Right. But till then, I'm your new assistant, Mr. Queen." Her hand went towards him as she turned to him and grinned with a smile halfway between charming and mischievous. "Jesse Garrick, Sir. Ray was kind enough to show me around while you were busy." She shifted her stance so his body would have to turn away from the picture wall to keep looking at her. No point in Ray's hobby becoming the scrutiny of the man before them.

New Assistant.

Right, because he was the sort of person who had one of those now, wasn't he? Responsible. Corporate. That was the reality that he needed to embrace, and embody. It didn't matter that Publisher of the Gotham Globe was about as prestigious as Trophy Wife: both of them needed to look the part, needed to know how to walk the walk and talk the talk. It was easier said than done. In Oliver's experience, a personal assistant's primary responsibility was to be flirted with and potentially seduced by youthful trust fund brats - something that Oliver hadn't been for a long time. If his job was meaningless, then what purpose did an assistant actually serve? What exactly was it that Queen Consolidated expected him to need assisting with?

He fought the urge to frown, as he considered that name. Garrick. As in Jason Garrick, Oliver presumed; given his own familial connection to the Board, there was no reason to suspect otherwise. Head of Corporate Compliance, a position as mysterious and ambiguous as Oliver's own, as far as his understanding went. He wondered what agendas were at play here: coincidence, or nepotism, or something more considered and purposeful, like Oliver's own motivations? Was she here to keep tabs on him? To ensure his compliance on her father's behalf, should it be required? Was she an innocent pawn in a larger game, an excuse to visit, to scrutinise Oliver and his workspace in different ways? Or was the reason more benevolent, an opportunity embraced for an inoffensive first step into the corporate world, or kindred spirit for Oliver's benefit? There were too many possibilities, too many potential targets and no clear line of sight. Now wasn't the time for a shot in the dark: now was the time to watch, and wait, and hope for a better opportunity to draw the right kind of conclusion.

"Jesse Garrick," he repeated, reinforcing his smile, and reinforcing the name in his mind. His brow flickered into a slight frown, however, and he allowed the smile to falter. "I'll be honest with you, Jesse: I'm not great with names. First names I can cope with, but surnames? Can't remember them, and maybe it's the private school alumnus in me talking, but I'm not a big fan of them either. Something about the way teachers and other students use them to talk down to you, especially when that name carries a special kind of weight like mine."

Or yours, a momentary pause implied. He offered a shrug. "Long story short, Jesse is all I can commit to remembering without there being a helpful reminder or a name badge involved. And, fair is fair, that probably means you should call me Oliver."

He glanced across at the edia specialist. "That goes for you too, Ray."

The moment Oliver Queen appeared in his doorway, Ray lurched upright from the desk. It was instinctive, the kind of ingrained response to sighting a boss you wanted to impress, a boss you did not want to mistake you for the kind of unmotivated bum who lounged about the moment his back was turned. There was something else in that smile, he thought, like the cat that got the cream. Perhaps the talks with Mr. Edge went well. Instead of dwelling on whatever unknown dialogue had transpired between the current and former publisher of the Globe, Ray went about relaxing his face into something more natural and less deer-in-headlights. It didn't last long, however, for when he heard his very own joke tumble from Oliver's lips, his face lit up like a Christmas tree. His own stellar sense of humour vindicated, he fired Jesse a smug glance, and stumbled over the best way to capitalise on the sudden sparkling hint of common ground between himself and Oliver Queen.

"That's what I-!" he blurted, hand aloft like a celebrating soccer player, "I mean you just... Man-! Edias! ...Good one."

On the inside, Ray could feel himself imploding under the weight of his own lameness. He cleared his throat, then, and gave Jesse and Oliver a wide berth to become acquainted. Slowly, he circled the room. Amongst the unremarkable contents of his room, his Wall of Weird practically glared like a beacon, and, without context, it had the unfortunate effect of making him look like a fledgeling sociopath. Jesse handled the introduction with charismatic flair, as expected, and mercifully, had positioned herself in such a way that Oliver had his back to both Ray and the obnoxious Wall of Weird. And, by the time, Oliver looked his way again, the map was drawn down into place, the Wall of Weird was out of sight. Ray attempted to look as natural as possible, with mixed results.

"Great!" he said, his smile resurfaced with ease, "Now I can tell my buddies at McGinty's that I'm on first name terms with Oliver Queen. You won't mind if I throw your name around for personal gain, right?"

Poor Ray...

Faced with our idols, we all turn into drooling adolescents. She glanced over as Ray pulled down the map over the collection of oddities. "Jesse is fine, Oliver." She smiled and looked back at him with her full attention. "As to keeping track of names. I am good at that. So you let me know who you are supposed to remember, and I will make sure you do when it counts. How's that?" She laughed slightly and nodded with the reassurance she wanted to convey to him.

She then winked and leaned in with a whisper that everyone in the room could hear. "And I promise to never talk down to you unless you tell me you need it. How's that?" Something told her there would come a time when Oliver would benefit from a good talking to. She just wanted him to know she would be there to support that. And also so he knew she wasn't one to go 'gaga' over him and blindly swoon every time he batted his eyes.