The Way We Talk

Mutiny (Little Talks #18)

Prompt:  "You're cut off."

Moira Queen did not become the CEO of a global conglomerate by being sweet and kind.  No, she is known as ruthless, underhanded, and cold in the business world—something of which she is very proud.  It is a fair description, too; during her short tenure as head of Queen Consolidated, she singlehandedly controlled most of the monetary transactions in Starling City.  She is a woman who can make or break a company, and she is still looked upon with that same fear and awe, even after leaving her legacy to her son.  It certainly doesn't hurt her image that prison became part of the equation.

As such, she is not a woman who takes dissent lightly.  In the business world, shareholder dissent can be the beginning of the end of even a major corporation—if the situation is not remedied with enough haste.  Business empires rise and fall by the happiness of one's stockholders, and that is easily bought and sold.  Raise the stock dividends a dollar per share, split stock—or, sometimes both—and, suddenly, all is well again.

While dissent can easily be cured, mutiny is a far more serious matter.

Mutiny isn't just one or two dissatisfied shareholders or a poor money manager.  No, mutiny is the point at which the shareholders—men and women built from wealth who know nothing of work—sell the corporation you and your departed spouse gave your lives to, as if it's worth nothing more than the profits they receive every quarter.

Mutiny can't be allowed without consequence.

It's for precisely this reason that Moira calls her son into her late husband's study that afternoon.  He's late, as usual, but at least this time she knows it's because his meeting at the office ran late—a perfectly plausible excuse that still subtly serves to remind her that Oliver no longer feels the need to answer her.  Despite that, she's grateful that he at least has the decency to let her know beforehand now when there's a delay.

Even if it results in a rather awkward conversation with the executive assistant who, in Moira's opinion, is to blame for the entire situation.  She's spent many days wishing Felicity Smoak—a nobody who dares interfere with the Queen family—was never born, and now spends her nights planning vengeance against the little girl who dared spark a mutiny in something much more precious than business.

No, she dared interfere with Moira's children, and she will have retribution.  Nemo me impune lacessit, indeed.  It's a phrase she never understood before, but now she most certainly does.  No one offends me with impunity.

When he does deign fit to grace her with his presence, he appears at the door of the study.  She sees the expression on his face, and she absolutely despises it.  She hates that the likes of Felicity Smoak brought them to this—pretending to be a happy family for the sake of Thea.  Thea, who belongs to Malcolm and not Robert.

"What do you want?" Oliver asks her, his voice devoid of all emotion.  It breaks her heart to hear him sound so cold, but here there is no audience for which he should pretend.  She reminds herself that this is the illusion, and that this is the true, frightening reality.  They are a family of liars, a family of traitors, but none are more equipped to deal with this than Moira.  She knows precisely how to diffuse a mutiny.

Nevertheless, she keeps her composure.  "I have something I'd like to discuss with you," she says stiffly, as if this is just another business meeting and emotions aren't part of the equation.  She nods her head ever so slightly before she continues, "It's of the same nature as our last discussion."  Something flashes through his eyes in recognition, but he still stays silent.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself before she says the words that tear her heart out:  "I've altered some of my financial arrangements recently.  I wanted to tell you myself."  She's wrong; she can't say what she intended, and she stops quickly, before the sadness can threaten to overthrow her.  Doubt eats away at her, but then she remembers that this is his fault, that it's all just business now.

"Tell me what?" Oliver demands, his tone almost angry.

The prompt is enough to spur her into action again.  "You're cut off," she states flatly, forcing the words out in a rush.  She takes a deep breath, reorganizes her thoughts and tries again.  "Oliver, I—"

He cuts her off abruptly, turning on his heel to leave the room.  "It's fine," he assures her, but the anger makes his voice tremble.  "I said that we were done—now it's just like you were never my mother at all."  Then, before she can protest, he has left the room, and it's just like he never walked into her office at all.

She keeps her composure just long enough for him to leave, and then she allows only a few tears to fall before she manages to wear the mask again.