Let's Get Down To Business

[Oliver Queen]

It had been Queen Industries when he'd left.

It sounded so innocent, that. So mundane. When he'd left. He supposed at the time it had been. Just some rich playboy off to party on his private yacht in the Pacific. So simple. So routine. So underestimated. Just like he had been back then, he supposed. To the world he was just the bratty rich kid, living off his trust fund and his inheritance. Another orphan whose tragedy didn't seem quite so bad when you considered his bank balance. Bruce Wayne 2.0. A tabloid had even called him that once. Then the storm had happened, and when Oliver hadn't been amongst the survivors, no one had expected him to be anything but dead. No one had realised that it took more than just healthy eating to stay in the kind of shape he had back then. No one realised that ever since his parents had died on safari during his early teens, he'd been using archery in his ridiculously oversized back yard as a way of venting the stress from his system. No one realised that he'd used the pool for anything except making out with supermodels in bikinis - and sometimes not in bikinis, come to think of it. No one realised that if Oliver Queen found himself thrown overboard, separated by ocean currents from any hope of returning home, in dark night-time waters that made the Jaws theme play on a constant loop in the back of his head, he was going to swim his ass to the nearest island, and stubbornly keep himself alive for as long as it could.

Of course, being presumed dead for five years wasn't without ramifications. Declared legally dead, full ownership of Queen Industries - the corporation that Oliver had inherited from his father; though it never really felt like he owned it - had passed to his uncle; his mother's brother, William Glenmorgan. Clever bit of legal manoeuvring, working that little legal loophole into Ollie's will and inheritance. Regardless, Glenmorgan had acquired the company, and he'd taken it public; next thing anyone knew, Queen Industries had become part of Queen Consolidated, and was gobbling up every minor scientific R&D firm it could get it's hands on. Oh sure, Queen Consolidated had really turned it's fortunes around: gone from being a second-rate tech firm in the shadow of Wayne Enterprises to cornering the market on consumer electronics. QC was the brand that all the cool kids and the swanky executives wanted for their tablets, cell phones, and media devices. Hell, even Oliver had a Qphone - he may not like what his uncle had done, but he sure as hell wasn't going to be a technological neanderthal because of it. But you didn't need biochem or pharmaceuticals or any of the other bits and pieces that QC had acquired over the last few years, and when Oliver had received that call from Bruce that something shady might be going on, well.

What the hell are you up to, Uncle Bill?

Oliver climbed out of the taxi he'd hired and handed over the fare he'd already prepared - plus a little extra - to the driver, with a quick "Thanks." His attention was locked on the building towering above him. The corporate headquarters hadn't been located in Gotham when he'd left either, and yet here it was. Queen Industries itself still operated out of Star City, it's factories still pumping out chips and circuit boards for Consolidated's cutting edge projects, but it was other subsidiaries that handled the actual design, assembly, and programming. More changes. More strange decisions. Almost certainly more going on behind the scenes than anyone was letting on.

It took actual effort for Oliver to maintain a casual air about him, rather than slipping into his more comfortable Green Arrow persona. The urge to fall into a crouch, to sneak around, to have come here after dark instead of during working ours was like an itch crawling away beneath his skin. No doubt he'd return that way eventually; he doubted his meeting here would be all that fruitful, and more shadowy techniques would be needed, but he had to try. Had to pick Queen Consolidated up and see what he could shake loose.

He pushed his way through the glass doors of the lobby, and aimed himself direct for the reception desk. The surly Gothamite barely even looked up from her computer, chewing absently on her gum. "Appointment?"

"No," Oliver replied, as pleasantly as he could muster. "I don't have an appointment, but I was hoping I could speak to someone in charge. My name is Oliver Queen."

A moment of disinterested disbelief crossed her features as her eyes fixed on him, expression shifting into stunned surprise as a small gum bubble emerged from her mouth and burst.

"Don't worry," Oliver assured, voice as warm and charming as he could make it. "I'll wait."

[Lucius Fox]

The mens room door opened slowly just as the flustered businessman grasped to open it.

"Oh please sir, after you!" came the warm tone from inside. The businessman hurried inside and out stepped Lucius. He buttoned up his blazer and adjusted the cuffs of his shirt as he walked towards Oliver standing by the reception desk.

"Ah, Mr Queen. You're just how Mr. Wayne described you. My name is Lucius Fox, I'm the CEO of Wayne Enterprises. It's a pleasure to meet you!"

Lucius extended an open palm towards Oliver.

"Oh, don't worry, I've washed my hands, I assure you!"

[Oliver Queen]

The CEO of Wayne Enterprises here in the lobby of Queen Consolidated. That was an interesting development to be sure. Oliver tried to keep his expression quizzical, rather than openly suspicious. Whatever reason had brought Lucius Fox to this part of Gotham's central business district, he somehow doubted it had anything to do with the quality of the building's bathrooms.

"Mr Fox!" Oliver responded with equal warmth, grasping the offered hand firmly and mustering an easy smile. "The feeling is mutual. Bruce has always spoken very highly of you."

"That said," he added, releasing his grip and finding himself in the familiarly awkward position of not knowing what to do with his hands while he stood around talking - shoving his hands in his pockets didn't really seem like the right way to go, and his arms missed the reassuring weight of the gloves and bracers tugging down on his wrists as they hung at his sides. "Although you seemed a lot taller the last time. My father brought me to a Wayne Foundation fundraiser, oh, must have been about fifteen years ago now. I think I came up to your waist at the time."

[Lucius Fox]

"Yes of course. I recall you and a young Bruce terrorizing the kitchen staff on numerous occasions that evening. Your father was a good man. His..."

Lucius paused for thought, a slight look off to one side before continuing.

"I won't go down the road of offering you my sympathy for something that happened so long ago as I'm sure you get it all the time, and if it were me, I'd hate it. I'll simply tell you that your father was the best golfer I've ever known, and your mother made great chocolate chip cookies!"

[Oliver Queen]

Oliver cracked a smile. As much as his life so far had taught him to keep his emotions mostly under control, and as much time as he'd had to let the wound of his parents' death thoroughly scar over, this business with Queen Consolidated was threatening to tear those wounds open, and Fox's understanding and candour was more than appreciated.

"She did," he agreed, with the kind of tone that was equal parts fond memory and sad longing. "It's an old family recipe of hers from back in Scotland. I've never managed to decipher it properly and recreate them myself, though - there's a secret ingredient I can't quite suss out."

Ollie let out a soft chuckle. "Perhaps I should look into commissioning WayneTech R&D to try and find out for me."

[Lucius Fox]

Lucius smiled.

"Oh, I think I know what it is. And I'm sure you yourself know too!"

His watch let out a series of three quick high-pitched beeps.

"If you'll excuse me, Mr. Queen. I'm currently on my lunch break and I believe my order is ready - the chinese takeout stall across the street is good enough to drag me all the way from Wayne Tower. Incidentally, our bumping into each other was thanks to the large soda I drank half an hour ago. Queen Consolidated's fine lobby just happens to have the cleanest bathroom for six blocks. Oh, and before I go - Mr. Wayne mentioned something about accomodation. You may want to pay him a visit once you're done here."

[Oliver Queen]

"Well thank you, Mr Fox - now you've got me craving wontons."

Oliver kept his expression in exactly the same jovial state as before, but his eyes subtly scrutinised Lucius Fox for any hidden meaning in his words. Perhaps there wasn't any. Perhaps the stall across the street just had the best spring rolls in the city. Perhaps Fox was just the sort of man who liked to get out of the office and get his own lunch instead of sending an intern for it the way most CEOs would. Perhaps he had the kind of bladder you'd expect of a man his age, and there was absolutely nothing but coincidence in his being here. But everything about this situation, about being here in Queen Consolidated, about his investigation, abut all the secrets and deception - it had him on edge, suspicious of everything, glaring at shadows to find out what they were trying to hide.

"I'll be sure to swing by and visit Bruce the first chance I get," Oliver assured. "And we'll have to try and bump into each other again without your stomach or bladder dictating the time and the place. It's not often I get to speak to someone who knew my father, and, well -"

He shrugged, his expression indicating the lobby around him.

"A lot has changed these last few years. The kid I was back then didn't pay attention to much aside from himself; and the man I've become wishes he could reach back and smack that entitled brat upside the head. It'd be nice to find out more about the man I never got the chance nor took the time to know."

[Lucius Fox]

"It'd be my pleasure. Good day, Mr Queen!"

Lucius smiled. Whether it was a smile out of politeness or the thought of lunch was anyone's guess. He then turned and left through the large gleaming glass doors and crossed the road.

[Isabel Rochev]

With a delicate crease marring her brow, the woman leaned forward and peered closely at the reports spread across the top of her desk. She plucked the most recent quarterly from the lot and leaned back in her sumptuous leather chair, slender legs crossed as she studied the numbers and analysis the accounting department had put together. Each subsidiary was represented there, profits and losses marked clearly throughout the quarter, telling her in no uncertain terms how they were each doing. A pen was soon plucked up from amidst the papers, scarlet ink marking the pages as she made notes.

There were a few that Isabel questioned the acquisition of, but as they were performing well so far, there was little to actually complain about. She paused for a moment, a brief, warm smile curling her lips as the music emanating softly from the speakers segued into a tune she'd not heard in a very long time. There was a sacred memory in those notes and phrases, one she did her best to keep free of the enmity that had followed. Little had she known how her life would change after that night.

Her reverie lasted until the music changed again, slipping from a ballad into one of Tchaikovsky's violin concertos. Another fond memory there, Isabel mused, recalling her recent outing to the Symphony. Features remained warmed by her faint smile as she bent her head to the task of reviewing financial reports once more. Scarlet and emerald ink alternated as was her wont, the former indicating immediate actions to be taken, the latter denoting longer term plans and ideas. It consumed most of her morning, given the interruptions of the telephone and various scheduled visitors that she had to contend with.

Upon finishing, she gathered up the pages and stacked them neatly in the leather folio for her assistant to handle, keeping only the recent quarterly for her continued perusal. Her regular meeting with William was scheduled for later that afternoon, and she would not be unprepared for it. A manicured finger reached up and tapped the small, glowing device tucked into her ear. "Elise, I've finished with the reports. If you could come take the folio and prepare the notes for distribution, I would appreciate it."

With a crisp and efficient tone, the young woman replied promptly. "I'll be right in, Miss Rochev."

Isabel touched the device again to close the line, hear the door to her office open moments later, and Elise's heels clicking across the gleaming marble floor. "Excellent...everything is there." she nodded towards the folio, which the young blonde quickly picked up.

"Shall I order your usual for lunch, Miss Rochev, or will you be going out today?" she asked brightly.

The woman smiled, fingers smoothing out her red dress as she shifted in her seat. "The usual will be fine, Elise, thank you. Choose something for yourself as well, my treat, since I kept you working through lunch yesterday. Oh, and lest I forget, please call R&D to remind them I'm still waiting on the specs for the new QPhone, would you?"

"I will, Miss Rochev, and thank you." She sauntered back out with a quick step, and Isabel picked the tablet up from her desk in lieu of the report.

It hadn't been but a few minutes since Elise had departed, before the discreet tone sounded in her ear, marking it as coming from her assistant's phone. "Yes, Elise? What is it?"

"Miss Rochev..." the young woman hesitated, and Isabel could all but see her biting her lower lip. "...Oliver Queen is downstairs in the lobby."

Fingers tightened on the arms of her chair, and she remained silent for several moments, breathing deeply and biting back the colorful invective that threatened to slip past her cultivated facade.

"Miss Rochev?" Elise inquired, and Isabel realized she'd been silent a touch too long.

"Have him sent up, Elise. I will meet with him personally."

Elise clicked off her line promptly, calling down to the Reception Desk to inform them that Mister Queen was to be escorted to the elevator and up to the executive floor.

Isabel, for her part, cast a glance around her office and rose from her seat, staring blankly out the window. Oliver Queen. Robert's son. She inhaled sharply and straightened her posture, fingers tapping out a quick message and sending it off before she returned to her desk to set the tablet down and wait.

[Oliver Queen]

Miss Rochev will see you now.

Such an innocent string of words, and yet somehow they carried with them the ominous sense of being summoned to the gallows. Part of him was relieved in a way: Isabel Rochev didn't know him the way that William Glenmorgan did; didn't have the same arsenal of knowledge, of memories, of manipulations that Oliver's uncle already had in place.

The reverse was true though: Oliver knew next to nothing about Miss Rochev, either. She was Russian, her wealth and position was self-made - Siberian diamonds or something, Oliver half remembered reading. When Uncle Bill had stepped aside from running the company directly, Isabel Rochev was his hand-picked replacement as CEO; but Oliver couldn't fathom why. She had the qualifications and the capabilities, yes, but none of the connections; none of the inside edge that it usually took to get ahead in corporate environments such as this, especially as a woman. Or rather, if she had those connections, if she had some thread that tied her to Glenmorgan or Queen Consolidated in some way, it wasn't a thread that Oliver had managed to discover. That worried him. Unsettled him. He was about to walk into her domain, and he was doing it blind; and without so much as a hand-held crossbow for reassurance.

He glanced at a light fitting as he passed; wondered how quickly he could tear it off the wall and convert it into a makeshift weapon. Probably not fast enough. With any luck though, Miss Rochev would turn out to be one of those CEOs with a rack of Japanese swords in her office. Oliver had no idea why, but that always seemed to be a fixture of any self-respecting wealthy businessman's office. Maybe it was supposed to make them seem cultured, as if their interests and experiences stretched beyond the borders of the mere United States. Or perhaps corporate espionage was more literal than people realised, and such weapons were necessary when the assassins came and kicked down the doors.

The elevator was slow-moving, taking an age as it ascended it's way towards the 52nd floor. The doors disgorged him into a decoratively spartan lobby, granite mixed with glass to create a space that seemed open, and yet felt oppressive and protective at the same time. There was nowhere to hide in the lobby. Office spaces, conference rooms; in the lobby you were visible to everyone, exposed like an animal caged in a zoo.

Oliver didn't have a chance to open his mouth and introduce himself before a secretary, or PA, or whatever the politically correct term was gestured silently in the direction he needed to walk. Oliver drew a small breath, steeling himself before he entered, casually wondering if fifty-two stories was enough time to work out how to save himself if he found himself with the urgent need to leap out of a window and escape.

Behind her desk, Miss Rochev had all the stern intimidation of a headmistress; without an act, without a movement, she somehow made Oliver feel as if he were a school child about to be reprimanded and thrown into detention. He fought against it; reminded himself of his situation. A powerful businesswoman like this? Making men feel insecure and inadequate was likely the only way she managed to get anything done.

"Miss Rochev." The words came out with more confidence than he currently felt. Confrontations such as this were far easier with a hood, and a mask, and a bow to protect him. Oliver Queen wasn't supposed to face down danger; that's what the Green Arrow was for. He'd grown so accustomed to being the latter that facing danger as the former just felt wrong. He came to a stop as he reached her desk, a matter of feet now separating them. He punctured that distance with an outstretched hand. "My name is Oliver Queen. I don't believe we've had the pleasure."

[Isabel Rochev]

Hands were folded neatly at her waist as she heard her office door swing open, the partially frosted glass sending a cascade of tiny rainbows across the floor as it's edge caught the light just right. Eyes rose to watch the young man approach, taking stock of the sight he presented in his impeccably tailored suit. His features bore a striking resemblance to his father's, in her opinion, a fact which she filed away to contemplate later. When the pleasure at the lack of resemblance to his mother would be least likely to present itself upon her features and invite an unwelcome question.

Isabel's features remained smooth and calm as she nodded, remaining silent as he reached her desk and proffered his hand across it. She reached out with her own hand, clasping his with a firm grip, born of her years spent in the diamond mine in Siberia. Though mercifully, a steady regimen of proper skincare and regular manicures had seen to the deceptively delicate appearance of her hands. "Mister Queen...this is a delightful surprise. Please, do have a seat." she said with a nod toward the chairs he had stepped between.

Withdrawing her hand from his, she smoothed out her dress and sat gracefully in her chair, legs crossing as she gathered up the papers on her desk and set them aside in a neat pile. Elise would know not to disturb her for anything less than a raging inferno, and very few things qualified as such. William did, but he never stood on ceremony and always breezed right by to let himself in whenever they were to meet.

Tilting her head, carefully arranged chestnut curls cascaded across her shoulder. "Tell me, to what do I owe the pleasure of your visit today?" Isabel inquired, a faint smile gently curling her lips as she made an effort to add a touch more pleasantry to her normally brisk, business-centric mien.

[Oliver Queen]

This was where William Glenmorgan would have been a better conversational opponent. At least with his uncle, Oliver could have stalled for time with small talk, meandering his way towards the questionable reason for his presence here. It was a long shot at best; but with Glenmorgan there he could have appealed to the man's sense of family, he could have faked vulnerability, played off a sense of duty and obligation - something.

The polite smile that Oliver had adopted wavered and fractured, a nervous laugh breaking through. "I've been asking myself the same question," he half-lied, hoping that he'd somehow manage to find a way to stumble across a path into Rochev's sympathies. He glanced around her office, feigning a sense of nervousness, looking for glimpses of inspiration that might help him. There were no photographs on her desk, he noticed; no portraits of family, no reminders of children or loved ones. Perhaps Isabel Rochev wasn't the sort of person who felt the need for such things. Perhaps she was the sort of woman who liked to cultivate a certain image, and felt that family portraits might soften her; feminise her. Perhaps she was the sort of woman who had dedicated her all of her life to her career, and hadn't yet found the time for family.

It was a gamble; a risky angle, one that could potentially backfire in spectacular fashion. He tried it anyway.

"Do you have family, Miss Rochev? Children?"

He rearranged his expression into a frown. It wasn't difficult: plenty of genuine emotion was there to be drawn upon. He thought of his young wards, of Roy, of Mia; thought of the way they had been when he had first encountered them, the troubled lives they had been leading, the questionable existence that he had tried to save them from. Roy had been struggling, teetering on the edge of substance abuse, angry at a world that didn't care for him. Mia had been broken, beaten down, barely a teenager before the world had managed to convince her that her body was the only asset of any value she had. The government and legality used different terms for it. Legal guardian. Foster care. Whatever. But for Oliver there was no qualifier, no appended word that diminished the connection between him. They weren't the closest thing he had to children of his own - they were his kids; his son, his daughter.

There was a saying, that blood is thicker than water. People always took that to mean that family, that the connections born by blood and relation, were more important than any other. But that was because people didn't know the entire proverb. The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb. The ties that you make for yourself, the promises that you forge, hold more sway than mere birth, mere genetics. Perhaps it was the fact that Oliver had no real family left that the sentiment resonated so strongly with him. Or perhaps it was all because of what a wise old man in a baseball cap had once said: family doesn't end with blood. The why didn't matter. He didn't love those kids as if they were his own: they were his own, in the only way that mattered.

"When I was on that island, I knew I was going to die. I didn't expect to be rescued, I didn't have an escape plan; I resigned myself to the fact that as far as the world was concerned I was already dead, and I was simply passing the time; holding death at bay until she finally came for me. For myself, I was at peace with that; but what got to me was the guilt. After my parents died, I did nothing with my life. I always thought that finding meaning, finding purpose, doing something that mattered would come later. I had my whole life ahead of me; I could worry about the family legacy in due time. But later came, and went, and my life was a waste."

His frown deepened. For something he was saying in an attempt to tug at Rochev's heartstrings - if she even had a heart; right now he couldn't tell - he was doing an unexpectedly good job of tugging at his own. There was more truth to these words than he had realised. His smokescreen to disguise his true intentions had a surprising amount of substance.

"Since I was rescued, since I was brought back to life, I have tried to do make myself matter. Charity work, the Youth Center in Star City, adopting Mia and Roy -"

He trailed off.

"It doesn't feel like enough. I am trying to be a good person, but I have a responsibility to be more than that. I owe it to my father to be part of his legacy. I have an obligation to do right by his memory, to live up to his name. But this -" He gestured around him, to the room, the building, to Queen Consolidated as a whole. "- is beyond my reach. I can't be the kind of man my father would have wanted me to be - and I can't learn about my father, and the company he helped to build - if I'm on the outside looking in."

For the last few moments, Oliver had looked anywhere but at her; but now he turned his eyes on Rochev, meeting her gaze directly.

"I was hoping to meet with my uncle. Before the island, he told me that I would always have a place at Queen Industries; that for as long as it existed, I would always belong. Wanted to see if that promise was still true for Queen Consolidated."