THE NEXT DAY - MICKEY'S TAVERN, THE GLADES - EVENING
The poker game in Mickey's back room had the ritualistic quality of a religious service—five men gathered around a felt table worn smooth by decades of desperate hands and shattered dreams, cigarette smoke hanging in the air like incense for the gods of bad luck and worse decisions. The stakes were small enough to keep things friendly but large enough to matter to men who counted every dollar twice before spending it once.
Derek Reston sat with his back to the corner, a position he'd claimed out of habit rather than paranoia. At fifty-three, he'd learned to read rooms the way other men read newspapers—quickly, thoroughly, and with particular attention to anything that might cause problems later. His weathered hands moved with the precise economy of someone who'd spent thirty years working with tools, whether they were legitimate locksmith equipment or less legal implements of his current trade.
"Your bet, Derek," said Mickey Chen, the bar owner whose establishment had become an unofficial community center for men who'd been discarded by an economy that no longer had use for their particular skills. Mickey had been a machinist at Queen Industrial for twelve years before the closure; now he served beer and provided a place where former employees could pretend they still had somewhere to belong.
Derek studied his cards with the kind of careful attention that had made him an excellent foreman and an even better thief. Three queens, a seven, and a deuce. Not the best hand he'd ever held, but far from the worst.
"Raise five," he said, sliding a crumpled bill into the center of the table.
The other players—Jimmy Torres from shipping, Bill Crawford from maintenance, and two guys Derek knew only as Sal and Pete—grumbled good-naturedly as they considered their options. This was Thursday night poker, not Vegas. The real point was the company, not the money.
"You know," Jimmy said as he folded his hand with obvious disgust, "I heard Robert Queen's kid is back in town. Oliver. The one who supposedly died in that yacht accident."
"Turns out he wasn't dead," Bill added, matching Derek's raise with the careful deliberation of a man who couldn't afford to lose. "Been back for months now. Living in that mansion of his like nothing happened."
Derek's expression didn't change, but his fingers tightened almost imperceptibly on his cards. He'd been hearing Oliver Queen's name more often lately, usually in contexts that suggested the young billionaire was trying to rehabilitate his family's public image after years of scandal and tragedy.
"Must be nice," Sal muttered around his cigarette, "coming back from the dead to find out your trust fund's still intact."
The conversation might have continued in that vein—the comfortable bitterness of men who'd been abandoned by the system dissecting the lives of those who'd never had to worry about abandonment—but it was interrupted by the soft scrape of a chair being pulled back.
Derek looked up to see Oliver Queen settling into the empty sixth seat at their table with the kind of casual confidence that came from never having to wonder whether you belonged somewhere. Even dressed down in jeans and a simple black henley, Oliver carried himself with an unconscious authority that marked him as someone who'd never known what it was like to be truly powerless.
The table fell silent with the particular kind of uncomfortable quiet that descended when worlds collided in ways that made everyone involved acutely aware of the distances between them.
"Gentlemen," Oliver said simply, his voice carrying just enough warmth to avoid seeming condescending. "Mind if I join you?"
Derek studied the younger man with the calculating assessment of someone who'd learned not to trust gift horses, especially ones that came wrapped in expensive clothes and practiced charm. Oliver Queen was handsome in that effortless way that spoke of good genetics and unlimited resources, but there was something in his ice-blue eyes that suggested he'd seen things that wealth couldn't protect against.
"Your money's as green as anyone else's," Mickey said finally, though his tone carried the cautious neutrality of a bartender who'd learned to navigate the complex social dynamics of his establishment without taking sides.
Oliver pulled out his wallet with practiced ease, extracting several bills that probably represented more money than most of the men at the table saw in a week. "What's the buy-in?"
"Fifty to start," Derek said, never taking his eyes off Oliver's face. "Five-dollar minimum bet, no limit on raises as long as you can cover them."
"Fair enough." Oliver placed his money on the table and leaned back in his chair, projecting the kind of relaxed awareness that suggested he was comfortable but not careless. "Deal me in."
Jimmy dealt the next hand with the mechanical precision of someone who'd been shuffling cards since before Oliver was born, the familiar rhythm of pasteboard against felt filling the awkward silence. Derek received his cards—a pair of eights, a king, a four, and a jack—and found himself more interested in studying Oliver than in calculating odds.
"You know," Derek said conversationally as he arranged his cards, "your father used to come in here sometimes. Back when the plant was still running."
Oliver's hands stilled for just a moment before he picked up his cards. "Did he?"
"Every few months," Derek continued, his voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone testing dangerous waters. "Usually around Christmas, sometimes after we'd had a particularly good quarter. He'd buy a round for everyone, shake hands, ask about our families. Made a real show of being one of the boys."
The temperature at the table seemed to drop several degrees, though Oliver's expression remained perfectly composed.
"He believed in staying connected to the people who made the company work," Oliver said quietly, his voice carrying a note of something that might have been regret.
Derek's smile held no warmth whatsoever. "Right up until the day he decided we were too expensive to keep around."
"Derek," Mickey said quietly, a note of warning in his voice.
"No, it's alright," Oliver replied, setting his cards face-down on the table without looking at them. "He's got a right to his anger. What happened to the people at Queen Industrial... it was wrong."
"Wrong?" Derek's voice carried the bitter edge of five years' worth of accumulated grievances. "Your father looked me in the eye six months before the closure and told me the plant had a bright future. Told me I was being considered for a promotion to floor supervisor. He shook my hand and asked about my boys, wondered if Kyle might be interested in an engineering internship."
Oliver was quiet, but Derek could see something working behind those pale blue eyes.
"Three weeks later," Derek continued, his voice growing harder, "he announces that production's moving overseas. Three weeks after that, security cameras catch me taking materials I thought I'd earned through fifteen years of loyal service, and suddenly I'm not just unemployed—I'm a criminal. Fired for cause, no severance, no pension, no recommendations. Twenty-four hours to clean out my locker and disappear."
The other men at the table shifted uncomfortably, but no one moved to leave. This was the conversation they'd all wanted to have but never had the opportunity for—the chance to look Robert Queen's son in the eye and explain exactly what his father's business decisions had cost them.
"Two calls," Bill said suddenly, sliding his cards into the discard pile. "Betting's getting too rich for my blood."
It was a polite fiction. The real betting hadn't even started yet, but Bill Crawford had worked for the Queens long enough to recognize when a conversation was heading somewhere he didn't want to follow. Jimmy and Sal took the hint, folding their hands and making noises about needing fresh drinks.
Within moments, Derek and Oliver were alone at the table, five abandoned hands scattered between them like the remnants of a battle neither had wanted to fight.
"My father made a lot of decisions he probably regrets," Oliver said finally, his voice carrying the weight of someone who'd spent considerable time thinking about legacy and consequence. "If he were here, I think he'd tell you he was sorry for the way things ended."
Derek laughed, but there was no humor in it. "If he were here, he'd probably offer to buy me a drink and ask about my family. Right before he found a way to screw me over again."
"Maybe," Oliver conceded. "Or maybe he'd try to make things right."
"And how exactly would he do that?" Derek asked. "Bring back Queen Industrial? Give me fifteen years of my life back? Undo five years of watching my family struggle while his family lived in comfort?"
Oliver was quiet for a long moment, his pale eyes studying Derek's face with unsettling intensity.
"People get hurt when they make wrong choices," he said finally. "But there's always one moment where they can turn it around. One chance to do the right thing, even if it can't undo all the wrong things that came before."
Derek felt something cold settle in his stomach. There was something in Oliver's voice that suggested this wasn't a philosophical discussion anymore.
"What are you really doing here?" Derek asked, his voice dropping to the careful quiet of someone who'd learned to be suspicious of unexpected gifts. "Because I'm having trouble believing you just happened to wander into Mickey's looking for a friendly poker game."
Oliver reached into his jacket and withdrew a business card, placing it carefully on the felt between them. Queen Consolidated, Oliver Queen, Chief Executive Officer. The corporate logo gleamed under the bar's harsh fluorescent lighting like a challenge.
"I'm offering you a job," Oliver said simply.
Derek stared at the card like it might bite him. "What kind of job?"
"Senior operations manager," Oliver replied without hesitation. "Queen Consolidated is opening a new manufacturing facility here in Starling City. American production, American workers, American oversight. We need someone with your experience to help us do it right this time."
The silence stretched between them, heavy with possibility and suspicion in equal measure. Derek's mind raced through implications, calculating odds and motivations with the same precision he'd once applied to procurement schedules and production quotas.
"What's the catch?" he asked.
"No catch," Oliver said. "Full benefits, competitive salary, pension plan, the works. A chance to rebuild what was lost."
Derek picked up the business card, turning it over in his weathered fingers like it was some exotic artifact whose purpose he couldn't quite determine.
"And all I have to do is what, exactly?" he asked. "Forget the past five years? Pretend your father's decisions didn't destroy my family? Show up to work every morning grateful for the opportunity to help the Queens make more money?"
"All you have to do," Oliver said quietly, "is give us a chance to do better."
Derek's laugh was harsh and bitter. "Better. Right. You want to know what 'better' would have been, kid? 'Better' would have been honest communication from the beginning. 'Better' would have been adequate severance packages for people who'd given their lives to your family's company. 'Better' would have been your father looking me in the eye and telling me the truth instead of feeding me corporate bullshit right up until the day I was escorted out by security."
Oliver absorbed the verbal assault without flinching, his expression remaining calm and attentive.
"You're right," he said simply. "All of that would have been better. I can't change what my father did, but I can try to change what happens next."
Derek set the business card back on the table, pushing it across the felt toward Oliver with deliberate finality.
"I don't want your charity," he said. "I don't want your guilt money, and I don't want to spend the rest of my working life pretending to be grateful to the son of the man who screwed me over."
"It's not charity," Oliver insisted. "It's business. We need your expertise, your experience, your knowledge of how to run efficient operations. You'd be earning every dollar of your salary."
"Would I?" Derek asked. "Or would I be a public relations gesture? The former Queen Industrial employee who got his second chance thanks to the enlightened leadership of Oliver Queen? A living, breathing symbol of corporate redemption?"
Oliver was quiet for a moment, and Derek could see him considering the question seriously.
"Maybe a little of both," Oliver admitted finally. "But does that matter if the end result is good work, fair pay, and the chance to build something meaningful?"
Derek studied the younger man's face, looking for any sign of deception or manipulation. Oliver Queen was obviously intelligent, probably well-educated, almost certainly accustomed to getting his way through a combination of charm and financial leverage. But there was something in his eyes that suggested he genuinely believed what he was saying.
Which somehow made it worse.
"You know what the real problem is, kid?" Derek said, leaning back in his chair. "You think this is about me. You think if you can fix Derek Reston's life, you can somehow balance the scales for what your father did. But I'm not the only one your family's decisions affected."
"I know that," Oliver said quietly. "This would just be the beginning."
"The beginning of what? A corporate redemption tour? Are you planning to track down all two hundred and thirty-seven former employees and offer them jobs? Are you going to personally apologize to every family that lost their home because of your father's cost-cutting measures?"
Oliver's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "I'm going to do what I can to make things right."
Derek shook his head, a mixture of disgust and something that might have been pity crossing his weathered features.
"Here's the thing about making things right," he said. "Sometimes the damage is too deep to fix with good intentions and job offers. Sometimes people move on, find new ways to survive, build new lives from the wreckage of their old ones. And sometimes they don't want to go back to depending on the same people who failed them the first time."
Oliver was quiet, but Derek could see him processing the words, weighing them against whatever internal calculus he used to make decisions.
"What if you're wrong?" Oliver asked finally. "What if this could actually work? What if we could build something better than what was lost?"
Derek considered the question seriously, turning it over in his mind like a complex mechanical problem that required careful analysis.
"Then I guess you'll have to prove it without me," he said finally. "Find someone else to be your poster boy for corporate responsibility. Someone who hasn't spent the last five years learning how to survive without depending on anyone else's promises."
Oliver nodded slowly, as if he'd been expecting that answer but had hoped to be surprised. He reached for the business card, but instead of putting it back in his wallet, he placed it carefully next to Derek's abandoned poker hand.
"Keep it," he said quietly. "In case you change your mind."
"I won't," Derek replied with absolute certainty.
"Maybe not," Oliver agreed, standing with fluid grace. "But we're both dealing with the consequences of my father's decisions now. The difference is, from here on out, whatever happens is on us. Both of us."
Derek watched Oliver walk away, noting the controlled confidence in his movements, the way other patrons automatically gave him space without seeming to consciously decide to do so. Even in a dive bar in the Glades, Oliver Queen moved through the world like someone who'd never had to question his right to be anywhere he chose to go.
As Oliver reached the door, he paused and looked back.
"For what it's worth," he said, his voice carrying easily across the dim room, "I meant what I said about the job. The offer stands, regardless of everything else."
Then he was gone, leaving Derek alone with a business card, an abandoned poker game, and the uncomfortable weight of possibilities he didn't want to consider.
Derek sat in the silence for several minutes, staring at the business card like it might provide answers to questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask. Finally, he picked it up and slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket, next to his wallet and the small electronic device that Oliver Queen had managed to plant during their conversation.
Derek had noticed the sleight of hand, of course. Fifteen years of legitimate work followed by five years of less legitimate activities had taught him to be aware of his surroundings in ways that most people never learned. But he'd decided to let it happen, curious to see what Oliver Queen would do with whatever intelligence he managed to gather.
Besides, Derek Reston had his own plans for the future, plans that didn't involve job offers or corporate redemption or second chances from the sons of men who'd destroyed his faith in legitimate opportunities.
The Royal Flush Gang had one more job to pull, one final score that would set his family up for life in a place where the name Queen meant nothing and corporate promises carried no weight whatsoever.
After that, Oliver Queen could keep his charity and his guilt money and his father's legacy of broken promises.
Derek Reston would be long gone, and the consequences would belong to someone else entirely.
---
OUTSIDE MICKEY'S TAVERN - SAME TIME
Harry Potter leaned against the driver's side door of Diggle's black SUV with the kind of casual elegance that made expensive vehicles look like natural extensions of his wardrobe. Even in surveillance mode, he managed to look like he was posing for a magazine cover—perfectly tailored charcoal suit that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent, emerald green tie that brought out his striking eyes, and that artfully tousled dark hair that suggested he'd just run his fingers through it in a moment of contemplative genius.
"Well, that was educational," he murmured, his posh British accent wrapping around the words like silk around steel. The small communication mirror in his palm showed Oliver's retreating figure with crystal clarity, the magical enhancement providing details that would have made NSA surveillance equipment weep with envy.
Beside him, Daphne Greengrass examined her perfectly manicured nails with the kind of studied indifference that suggested she was processing multiple layers of tactical information while appearing to care only about her cuticles. At eighteen, she possessed the sort of devastating beauty that had graced society pages from London to Los Angeles—platinum blonde hair that caught streetlight like spun gold, aristocratic bone structure that belonged in marble, and grey eyes that held depths suggesting she saw far more than she let on.
"Derek Reston is significantly more perceptive than his file suggested," she observed, her cultured voice carrying the particular blend of boredom and calculation that came from years of navigating high-stakes social warfare. "He spotted Oliver's sleight of hand with the tracking device and chose to allow it. That suggests either supreme confidence or elaborate preparation."
From the passenger seat, Susan Bones leaned forward with the focused intensity of someone whose detective instincts had been pinging warning signals for the past twenty minutes. Her auburn hair fell in waves over her shoulders, and her green eyes held the sharp clarity of someone who'd learned to read people's intentions through years of police work.
"Or both," Susan said grimly, adjusting the small magical communication device clipped to her ear. "Men like Derek Reston don't survive five years of successful criminal enterprise without developing contingency plans for contingency plans."
Harry's smile held all the warmth of a winter morning. "Oh, I do hope so. It would be frightfully disappointing if our Royal Flush Gang turned out to be amateurs. I have standards to maintain, after all."
"Harry," Susan said with the patient tone of someone who'd learned to manage his more destructive enthusiasms, "this isn't a game. Oliver just walked into that bar and essentially confessed to having detailed intelligence about Derek Reston's criminal activities. If Reston decides to interpret that as some form of law enforcement cooperation..."
"Then we'll have a delightfully exciting evening," Harry finished with evident satisfaction. "Really, Susan, you worry too much. Oliver can take care of himself, and we're perfectly positioned to provide tactical support if things get interesting."
Daphne glanced up from her nail examination, grey eyes sparkling with the kind of wicked amusement that meant someone was about to have a very bad day.
"Define 'interesting,'" she purred, her voice taking on that husky quality that made men forget their own names. "Because I've been terribly bored lately, and I could use some proper entertainment."
"Down, girl," Susan muttered, though her tone carried more fondness than reproach. "Let's try to get through one evening without anyone getting hexed, shot, or creatively dismembered."
"Where's the fun in that?" Harry asked reasonably, his emerald eyes tracking Oliver's progress across the street with predatory focus. "Besides, Derek Reston strikes me as the sort of man who appreciates directness. Oliver's approach was refreshingly honest, even if it was tactically questionable."
"Honest?" Susan's voice climbed several notes. "He just offered a known criminal a corporate management position while secretly planting surveillance equipment on his person. That's not honest, that's entrapment with better presentation."
Harry's grin widened, transforming from merely dangerous to absolutely lethal. "Exactly. It's the kind of elaborate moral complexity that makes life worth living. Oliver gets to feel good about offering redemption, Derek gets to feel superior about rejecting charity, and we get to see what happens when idealism crashes into pragmatism at high speed."
The communication mirror in his palm flickered as Oliver emerged from Mickey's Tavern, his movements carrying the controlled tension of someone who'd just concluded a high-stakes negotiation without getting everything he'd wanted.
"He's out," Daphne observed unnecessarily, her attention shifting from her nails to the tactical situation with the fluid precision of someone who could multitask between vanity and violence. "Body language suggests the conversation didn't go according to plan."
"Was it ever likely to?" Susan asked, watching Oliver walk toward his motorcycle with the practiced assessment of someone who'd learned to read crime scenes through subtle environmental cues. "Derek Reston has been planning his revenge against Queen Consolidated for five years. Did Oliver really think a heartfelt apology and a job offer would make him abandon everything he's built?"
"Hope springs eternal," Harry replied philosophically, though his tone suggested he'd expected exactly this outcome. "Though I suspect Oliver's real goal wasn't to recruit Derek Reston as much as it was to establish psychological dominance through moral superiority."
"Explain," Daphne said, her grey eyes sharpening with interest.
"Simple, really," Harry continued, his brilliant mind working through the interpersonal dynamics with the precision of a master strategist. "Oliver walked into Derek's territory, offered him legitimate alternatives, and gave him every opportunity to choose redemption over revenge. When Derek inevitably refuses—which he just did—Oliver gets to proceed with whatever he's planning next while maintaining the moral high ground."
"Meaning what, exactly?" Susan pressed.
"Meaning that when we inevitably end up in a violent confrontation with the Royal Flush Gang," Harry said with silken pleasantness, "Oliver will be able to tell himself that he tried the peaceful solution first. It's rather elegant, actually—psychological preparation for necessary violence wrapped in the comforting fiction of attempted mercy."
Susan stared at him, her green eyes wide with something that might have been horror. "That's... that's actually kind of terrifying."
"Isn't it wonderful?" Harry agreed cheerfully. "I do so love watching my cousin's mind work. He's got all the tactical sophistication of a Slytherin wrapped up in the moral certainty of a Gryffindor. It's like watching poetry in motion, if poetry involved significantly more potential for creative violence."
Daphne's laugh was low and throaty, like honey poured over gravel. "Oh, darling," she purred, moving closer to Harry's side with predatory grace, "you're absolutely wicked when you analyze people like that. It's quite... stimulating."
The way she said 'stimulating' made Harry's pulse quicken and Susan's cheeks flush pink, though for entirely different reasons.
"If you two are quite finished," Susan said with pointed dignity, "we still have the small matter of a criminal organization to deal with. The tracking device Oliver planted will give us Derek's location, but it won't tell us when the Royal Flush Gang plans to strike next."
Harry's expression shifted subtly, the playful charm giving way to something harder and more focused. "Actually, I suspect we won't have to wait long. Derek's body language during the conversation suggested a man who's already committed to a course of action. Oliver's offer didn't surprise him because he'd already decided it wouldn't matter."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning that Derek Reston has been planning the Royal Flush Gang's final job for months," Harry said with quiet certainty. "Tonight's conversation was just confirmation that there's no going back to the legitimate world. Whatever he's planning, it's going to happen soon."
Daphne nodded thoughtfully, her mind working through tactical implications with the kind of strategic precision that had made her valuable in both business and less legal endeavors.
"First National," she said finally. "It has to be. Largest cash reserves in the city, security systems that are sophisticated but not cutting-edge, and enough symbolic value to make a statement about corporate power and individual powerlessness."
"Plus," Susan added with grim professionalism, "it's in the heart of downtown, which means maximum media coverage and minimum police response time. If Derek wants to go out in a blaze of glory, that's the target that makes the most sense."
Harry pulled out his phone, fingers moving across the screen with practiced efficiency as he accessed the communication channels that connected them to the rest of their team.
"Hermione," he said into the encrypted line, "we need everything you can find on First National's security protocols, architectural layouts, and staffing schedules. Full tactical assessment, priority one."
Hermione's voice crackled through the speaker with characteristic efficiency. "Already on it. I started running the analysis twenty minutes ago when the conversation at Mickey's took that particular turn. Should have complete schematics and guard rotations within the hour."
"And Oliver?" Susan asked.
"Still en route," Hermione replied. "Though he's taking the long way back, probably processing his conversation with Derek and preparing for the inevitable next phase."
Harry ended the call and slipped the phone back into his jacket pocket, his emerald eyes already distant with tactical planning.
"Right then," he said with evident satisfaction, "looks like we're going to have that delightfully exciting evening after all."
"Harry," Daphne said, her voice carrying a note of warning beneath its usual sultry confidence, "Derek Reston isn't going to be caught off guard this time. He knows we're hunting him, he knows Oliver Queen is involved, and he's had five years to prepare for exactly this scenario."
"Good," Harry replied with a grin that would have made his enemies reconsider their life choices. "I was getting bored with predictable opposition."
Susan shook her head, though she was fighting back a smile. "You know what? Sometimes I think the criminals of Starling City are lucky they only have to deal with Oliver's arrows and moral complexity. Having to face down your particular brand of cheerful sociopathy would probably be significantly worse."
"That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me," Harry said with genuine warmth, his emerald eyes sparkling with affection and something deeper. "Though I prefer 'strategically flexible' to 'sociopathic.'"
"Same difference," Daphne observed with wicked amusement, then moved closer to Harry's side until she was pressed against him with deliberate intimacy. "The question is whether our Royal Flush Gang is prepared for what happens when they discover they're not just facing the Hood anymore."
"Oh, I rather doubt they are," Harry murmured, his arm sliding around Daphne's waist with possessive ease. "After all, they've been planning to fight one vigilante with a bow and a hero complex. They're about to discover they're actually facing three vigilantes with advanced tactical training, magical enhancement, and absolutely no moral qualms about creative problem-solving."
"Plus Hermione's technical support, Neville's weapons expertise, and Oliver's increasingly flexible definition of non-lethal force," Susan added, settling back in her seat with the resignation of someone who'd learned to accept that her life had become significantly more violent since joining this particular team.
"Exactly," Harry agreed with cheerful malice. "Really, I'm starting to feel sorry for them. Almost."
The SUV fell into comfortable silence as they watched Oliver drive away on his motorcycle, the tracking device in Derek's jacket providing a steady signal on their monitoring equipment. Soon, the Royal Flush Gang would make their move, and when they did, they'd discover that the game had changed in ways they couldn't possibly have anticipated.
Harry looked out at the glittering lights of Starling City and wondered if Derek Reston had any idea what he'd set in motion when he'd chosen revenge over redemption.
Probably not, Harry reflected with satisfaction. But he was about to find out.
After all, the house always collected its debts eventually.
The only question was how much interest had accumulated along the way.
---
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