Chapter Text
There was just something about Thursdays that inherently sucked. Okay, so maybe it was just her and the fact that she had been up since three in the morning trying to convince Google Translate to well. . . translate this computer programming USSR microfilm into a form of English that actually made an iota of sense. Honestly, the glaring dragon she had morphed into today was not her fault. Not at all. No, it was all Google’s fault.
“What’s Google done this time, Felicity?”
Felicity Smoak glanced up to see that her internal tirade had left her oblivious to the end of Dr. Waller’s lecture and the exodus of her classmates. She scrambled, slamming her laptop shut and tossing it into her bag.
“Ready?” Lyla Michaels, Dr. Waller’s TA, was the only other person left in the room. The two had bonded in the few graduate courses that the computer engineering department chair (and her mentor), Dr. Steele, had convinced Felicity to take last year. While many of the other graduate students were put off by a then college sophomore in their midst--who could also match them code for code--Lyla took on an almost sisterly role with Felicity, looking out for her and helping her her study like a mad woman so that when the final grades were posted, the two women had the highest grades in the class.
Felicity hooked the bag on her shoulder and followed Lyla out of the classroom.
“So what the matter with you and Google? Communication issues?”
Felicity sighed, taking off her glass and rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Merlyn has us working on this computer programming history project. A couple weeks ago, I found these code microfilms in the archives, but of course they’re written in a Russian shorthand that Google can’t translate to save it’s life. The project’s due in a week and a half, Lyla, and I haven’t even started yet because Google won’t translate the stupid thing!”
“Oh! You should go see Johnny’s friend in Linguistics. I know he worked with Dr. Waller last year on the Russian and Mandarin translation of the her new book. If you need something translated, Oliver’s your guy.”
“So where would I find my guy. . I mean not my guy, like my man or anyth . . you just said “Oliver’s your guy” . . . ugh, my brain thinks of the worst way to phrase thing.”
Lyla laughed. “He’s a doctoral student, so you should be able to find him in the graduate offices in the LU building.”