The lights dimmed, flashes of white glowed purple in the fluorescent atmosphere, her stilettos slid into place on either side of the pole, and her blood boiled with anger.

72 hours prior:

When it came to undercover operations, the order of choice was always: Oliver goes in as a billionaire playboy, then if something else was needed, Diggle went in as some kind of security guard, and then Felicity. Felicity was the last resort. If they had to dress her up and have her cheat at cards or distract a guard they would, but they avoided that if at all possible.

Which is why, for the past 3 months, she had not been out in the field once. But this was different. Oliver could get into the club as a billionaire playboy, sure, and Diggle could could get in as his friend or driver or body guard or whatever they wanted, but neither of them would ever in a million years get near the owner's office undetected. Which mattered. Because that is where the information on the drug trafficking ring was kept.

Felicity suggested the obvious solution: she'd go in and apply as a dancer, find a way into his office unnoticed [no one ever cares where the strippers are behind the scenes. she assured them] and get the information. She assured Oliver and Diggle that they could be there in the club, in case she ran into any trouble. She assured them she would be safe.

And in terms of safety, it was not the most risky scenario possible. But it became increasingly apparent by the poorly masked skepticism on their faces that safety was not their only concern. and that was when the anger first hit her. They didn't think she could do it.

5 years prior:

You know those friends that don't really match? That was Felicity's cousin Bibi (Deborah was her respectable given name but she was Bibi to everyone but her parents). And for reasons unexplainable other than the tie of family, she'd been Felicity's best girl friend her whole life. Which was how Felicity had found herself a second year student at MIT, dragged away from her studies on a Friday night, at a pole dancing class.

Bibi had begged her to come, using all her powers of charm and persuasion and the "it's my birthday" card, and so she'd come. And as Felicity had expected, Bibi was not the problem. Her friends, with perfect hair and designer stilettos and derisive glances, were the problem. And Felicity was angry.

So when it came time to try out some of the basic introductory moves the bouncing instructor was showing them, Felicity had kicked off the heels Bibi mad made her wear, and jumped onto the pole. Years of climbing trees to read her books in peace and hanging from the monkey bars away from the claimed swings were put to good use, and she picked up the acrobatics of it fairly quickly. And the anger, the anger had an outlet now.

The next day she showed up to the studio alone. The instructor nodded, pleased and knowing, as Felicity filled out the applications for classes. And over the next few years, it continued to be her outlet. Whenever she was marginalized or overlooked or stereotyped, she'd always allow the anger to build and let it all out in the spins and flips and drops that made her feel powerful.

Present day: Audition

If Oliver had felt unconvinced about Felicity's ability to pull off the role of a pole dancer before, it was nothing compared to when he heard the song choice playing over the intercom. He couldn't see her, just a basic audio bug was all she'd had on her for this, but he could hear the strains of a slow, fairly quiet song playing - 'Angel' by Massive Attack, she later told him. Nothing like the fast low bass lines he'd expect for a dancer at a club. It was at this point that he was completely certain she knew nothing about the scene she was trying to get herself into. He tuned out and began planning alternate ways in.

When he heard the word "hired," he couldn't hide his shock. Diggle looked pleased at Oliver's bafflement. And Felicity, upon re-entering the Foundry and seeing the traces of shock still on his face, well, she looked... angry.

The next day:

The mission was simple. It was exactly as she'd stated. She'd even mentioned that she didn't need them there for backup, at least not both of them. They both came anyway.

Pulsing lights flashed in time to a low beat and she was no where to be seen. Which was good; she needed time backstage to slip in and get the information she needed from the office. Once they had that, she could just leave.

The anger started to build the second she cracked the security panel outside the office and slipped in. It increased as she easily copied all the information they needed onto a slim flash drive she then tucked in her bra. And the anger continued to rise up in her stomach as she slipped out of the office unnoticed. The anger of being doubted. The anger of being overlooked. The anger of having to constantly prove herself because even those who loved her looked at her with condescension and only used her abilities as a last resort.

So when the owner spotted her in the hall outside his office, and asked what she was doing, the excuse that she was just heading to the entrance to the center stage and had got lost hardly bothered her. She was not nervous when he ushered her in the right direction. She was not embarrassed when the announcer's voice rang out that they had a new performance tonight. She was not a bit sorry that they were going to see this.

The lights dimmed, flashes of white glowed purple in the fluorescent atmosphere, her stilettos slid into place on either side of the pole, and her blood boiled with anger.

A light violin strum and a crash of guitar and drums, and the anger of Marilyn Manson's "Tainted" love echoed the anger inside of her as she attacked the pole, spinning and twisting and dropping with an energy and speed that elicited a collective gasp from the audience. Cheers and whistles could be heard, but not by her. Her focus was on this moment, clad in a bit of black and alot of oil and sweat, and leather stiletto boots that swung violently around as she spun to the top of the pole and dangerously dropped down at breakneck speed, her legs catching her an inch above the ground as the song ended.

Wild applause and cheers brought her back. If she had looked at Oliver, she would have seen him frozen in place, his mouth hanging open in shock, with so much unmasked desire that there was almost drool coming out of the corner of his mouth. But she did not even throw him a glance as she stepped off the stage and walked proudly past the adoring crowd and out of the club.

When they arrived at the foundry, they found her there - already back in a ponytail, glasses, and office-appropriate A-line dress - seated at her computers, de-encrypting the information. She smiled happily up at them, re-adjusting her glasses.