Felicity had no choice but to abandon her eternal combo of mini-skirts and heels.
After digging through Thea's closet, she emerged in an old tracksuit and a pair of hiking shoes.
Thea took one look and nearly choked.
That outfit was a relic — at least ten years out of date. She wanted to tell Felicity to change, to keep up Star City's image, but Catwoman kept glancing impatiently at the clock. No time.
Fine, Thea sighed inwardly, let's just hope Gotham's in too much chaos to judge our fashion sense.
The three of them arrived at the Queen family's private helipad, lugging gear that looked more like they were moving house than heading to a rescue.
Most of it was Thea's—over a hundred arrows, multiple sets of arrowheads, knives, daggers, throwing blades, even two confiscated handguns.
Each woman carried one. Thea wasn't a trained marksman, but her archery gave her the instincts—her shooting was probably better than a standard cop's.
As for Felicity, the only instruction Thea gave her was, "Just don't shoot me."
"Where are you going?" Moira called out breathlessly. She'd rushed straight from her office when she heard her daughter had requisitioned a helicopter.
"Uh… we're going to Malibu Beach," Thea said with the fakest smile she'd ever worn, one arm wrapping around Felicity, the other around Catwoman's waist.
Felicity was used to her affectionate gestures. Catwoman, however, wasn't. The unexpected arm around her waist made her flinch—her body was too sensitive for that kind of contact—but she forced an awkward smile for the sake of the cover story.
Moira knew Felicity by name—one of the company's employees, a close friend of Thea's—but this new woman was a mystery. Beautiful, yes. Poised, definitely. But there was something dangerous in her eyes that put every motherly instinct on alert.
Still, seeing her daughter laughing and close with the two women, she said nothing—only reminded her to call when they landed safely.
Like most parents, Moira and Malcolm had long suspected their daughter's "preferences," but neither knew how to handle it. When Moira quietly asked Malcolm's opinion later, he'd been shocked for about ten seconds, then shrugged.
"Could be worse," he'd said. "At least it's not some guy."
After all, most fathers on Earth—no matter how modern—never quite handle the idea of their little girl in another man's arms.
Some just hide it better than others.
Malcolm's conclusion: let her be. Women were fine. Men? If any tried, he'd personally make them disappear. Ideally, Thea would just stay young forever and never date anyone.
Oblivious to her parents' silent panic, Thea climbed into the helicopter and had Catwoman take the pilot's seat.
Perfect, she thought. If we get lost, at least it's not my fault.
In the back, she watched Felicity hack into the Gotham City Police Department's database.
For a major city, its firewall held strong — it took her ten full minutes to break through.
"Alright," Felicity said, scrolling rapidly, "here's what we've got: Scarecrow, Riddler, Penguin—basically everyone's out."
Thea frowned. "Any sign of Poison Ivy?"
Felicity shook her head.
Good, Thea thought. No metahumans. Just psychos. I can work with psychos.
"Get ready," Catwoman shouted over the rotors. "We're approaching Gotham."
Through the glass, Thea caught her first glimpse of the city — a black sprawl beneath a suffocating blanket of cloud.
Even from this distance, she could see pockets of fire glowing between skyscrapers, like open wounds on the skyline.
The air felt heavy, thick with decay. Using the sensing technique Lady Shiva had taught her, Thea could almost feel it — a restless, rotten pulse beneath the surface.
Catwoman's voice cut through the roar. "Even without this crisis, people die here every day. Nobody even keeps count anymore."
Thea's imagination drifted darkly. If a necromancer ever showed up, they wouldn't even need a ritual. Just wave a hand, and boom—instant army of skeletons.
Star City, she decided, was like a sick old man. Gotham? A dying giant.
She wasn't sure which was worse.
As they flew lower, chaos came into sharp view: looters smashing windows, gunfire flashing in alleys, screams echoing between buildings.
Women's cries, children's sobs, the sound of sirens long gone silent.
Old men were shoved into the dirt for a handful of dollars.
Gotham was collapsing under its own weight.
For the first time, Thea felt something shift inside her.
Maybe this was what it meant to become a hero — to look at the suffering and feel compelled to act.
She wanted to help. Needed to help.
If she'd come here just to "play vigilante," that thought was gone now.
"Why aren't we landing?" she suddenly barked. "Every minute we waste, more people die!"
Catwoman threw her an exasperated look. "You tell me where to land! The whole city's on fire!"
Her words were punctuated by a burst of gunfire. Someone on the ground, either brave or stupid, was shooting at the helicopter.
At this altitude, the bullets couldn't reach them—but still.
"Idiots," Thea muttered.
Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement—a bald man in a flak jacket stepping into the open, hefting something on his shoulder.
Her heart stopped.
"Rocket launcher!"
"Hold on!" Catwoman yanked the control stick hard.
The rocket screamed past, close enough that the blast rocked the chopper and rattled their teeth.
All three women let out the same shaky breath.
"Welcome to Gotham," Felicity whispered.