Thea wasn't surprised to find herself under A.R.G.U.S. surveillance.
It was only a matter of time. She was useful to them—and they, in turn, were useful to her. Whether it was her mother's political campaign or her own research into advanced weaponry, both required resources and connections on a massive scale.
If she were being brutally honest, their cooperation was purely transactional: she played the hero; her mother ran for office—each legitimizing the other.
In a way, it was like handing over a hostage.
As long as her mother held a government position, Thea could never cross the line into true rebellion. And in return, her "heroic deeds" conveniently burnished her mother's public image.
A perfect, cynical symbiosis.
She reviewed her earlier conversation with Lyla Michaels in her mind—every sentence, every nuance—and found no loose ends.
Satisfied, she went looking for Felicity for a bit of casual chatter.
"Hey, Felicity, have you seen Catwoman these past few days?"
Three days had passed since Lyla's people hauled Killer Croc away. In that time, Thea had joined one of Barbara's organized "cleanup operations," which had gone almost comically smoothly—fifteen Arkham escapees caught in her ensnaring arrow traps like flies in a web.
They'd charged straight into the sticky threads screaming like lunatics, and Thea had honestly felt a little sorry for them.
Since then, though, boredom had crept back in.
Patrolling alone was dull, and Felicity—well, sending her outside was like handing the city a hostage.
So naturally, she'd thought of Catwoman. But after circling half of Gotham, there was no trace of her. Nobody had seen her in days.
Hence the question.
"Ah—haha, Catwoman? No idea where she went," Felicity said too quickly, shaking her head with exaggerated sincerity.
Thea squinted. That's a lie.
She didn't say a word, just stared. Felicity's gaze wobbled, darting everywhere except Thea's face.
Loyal little accomplice, Thea thought, amused. She didn't press further; it wasn't like those two had defected to Bane or anything. Gotham hadn't descended that far into madness—yet.
"Fine. Come on, let's drink in your room."
Felicity exhaled in relief. "Drink? Sure. Let's go!"
They carried a few bottles of Gotham ale to her cramped quarters.
Only now did Thea realize just how much junk Felicity had installed on her laptop—dozens of games, all downloaded during the one-hour prep window before they'd left Star City.
Unbelievable. The girl's fearless.
Actually, both of them were tourists here, if they were being honest. The ones fighting and bleeding were Gordon's men.
Under his relentless coordination, Gotham was finally stabilizing—one-third of the city reclaimed.
With more officers and civilians joining the effort, progress was accelerating. Give it another month, and the crisis would be over.
For Thea, that meant… nothing to do.
She wanted to train, but in Gotham she'd already hit the local ceiling.
Barbara dodged her on sight.
Catwoman was missing.
Robin, bound by some antiquated "no fighting women" rule, refused to spar.
So here she was—playing games and drinking beer to pass the time.
It was almost tragic.
They played half the night, drinking until the room blurred and both finally passed out.
"Kill them all."
"Do you feel pain? Fear?"
"Darling… help me…"
Who's talking? What's happening…?
Voices—whispers—echoed in her skull. Shapes drifted through the haze. Some she recognized, some she didn't. Two of them, drenched in blood, looked like her mother and Malcolm.
That couldn't be right.
She blinked, hard, but their faces shifted again—Robert and Oliver now, their skin pale and swollen as if they'd drowned.
Oliver? Impossible. That's not right. He can't be here. None of this makes sense.
Her instincts screamed that something was wrong.
She forced herself to breathe, recalling Lady Shiva's training—slow inhale, slow exhale—to steady her mind. But the hallucinations barely wavered.
It wasn't just in her head.
Even with eyes closed, she could feel shapes drifting nearby—presences brushing against her awareness.
Ghosts? Am I seeing ghosts?
No. This was Gotham. Something chemical. A gas.
She struggled to remember—where was she, what was she doing? Bit by bit, her memories returned. With effort, she managed to move her limbs.
Staggering upright, she glanced around. Felicity was lying on the floor beside her, pale and sweating.
A sharp, acrid scent burned her nostrils—musk mixed with synthetic chemicals.
Definitely gas.
Her thoughts blurred again as the hallucinogen hit harder, painting the air in crawling shadows and phantom whispers. But even through the haze, her survival instinct blared: Get out.
Every breath made it worse. She couldn't stay here.
With trembling hands, she dug through her bag. No time to change—just grabbed her gear, slung it on, and dragged Felicity onto her hoverboard.
Binding them both down with straps, she whispered the activation command.
The board shot upward like an arrow, silent and swift, until they hovered three hundred meters above ground.
The wind was icy, thin—but blessedly clean. The poisonous miasma clung to the streets below.
Slowly, painfully, her mind began to clear.
She looked around.
Pitch black.
No stars. No moon. Just heavy clouds pressing down over Gotham's skyline.
Night already?
Thea didn't linger. Steering the board away from the contaminated zone, she kept flying until the smell vanished completely.
Then, descending toward a dark residential block, she spotted a deserted house.
No lights. No movement.
Perfect.
She landed, kicked the door open, and swept the interior—empty.
Inside, she splashed cold water on her face, shaking from the aftereffects but grateful to be alive.
Whatever that gas was, it hit the whole district. God knows how many are still breathing it in.
She turned to Felicity, who was sprawled on the hoverboard, drenched in sweat and muttering, "Don't go… please don't go…"
Thea dabbed a towel in cool water and wiped her face. Two minutes later, Felicity's cheeks were flushed bright red—but not from embarrassment. The blood vessels under her skin were bursting.
Thea sighed. So much for first aid.
This toxin wasn't some cheap tear gas—it was sophisticated.
Cold water wasn't enough. She'd need an antidote, and fast.
She flexed her hands. Her body wasn't fully recovered, but at least she could move again.
No time to rest. If she wanted to save Felicity—or figure out what the hell just happened—she had to go back.
This time, she prepared properly: full gear, hood up, goggles on, triple-layer mask covering her face.
Whether the gas worked through inhalation or skin contact, she wasn't taking chances.
Locking the door behind her, she stepped outside, leapt onto the board, and shot back into the night—
straight toward the heart of Gotham's newest nightmare.