Thea completely ignored the gunfire rattling up at her.
Instead, she pushed her board faster, streaking past the line of trucks until she vanished from the gunmen's sight altogether.
Had she given up? Of course not.
They were still close to the university district — plenty of roads, gas stations, and junctions to choose from. She just needed the perfect choke point, somewhere narrow enough to stop all three trucks at once.
A gas station? No good — one stray bullet, and the whole block would go up.
A four-way intersection? Worse. She could block one truck, sure, but the other two would scatter. What was she supposed to do — clone herself?
She kept scanning, mind racing, until something caught her eye.
A few blocks ahead, the four-lane road suddenly narrowed — half of it barricaded by a pile of burnt-out cars and debris.
She didn't need to guess. Only Gotham's finest degenerates would build a makeshift toll booth like that.
A perfect ambush, she thought, grinning. And for once, it's not mine.
Hovering higher, she watched as the convoy approached, the three trucks rumbling down the road in a loose formation.
"These idiots," she muttered under her breath. "Charging into a blocked street without even sending a scout? Natural selection's coming for you."
To be fair, she was underestimating them. Scarecrow wasn't an amateur; he'd ordered a recon earlier.
It was his men who had dropped the ball — exhausted from an entire night of chaos and terror, none of them had bothered to report back.
Now, the lead driver was a bundle of nerves, his hands shaking on the wheel.
He knew what happened to drivers in movies — they were always the first to die.
His foot kept twitching between the gas and brake pedals, speeding up, slowing down, speeding up again. Behind him, the other gunmen were tense, rifles in hand, eyes darting at every shadow.
And then — out of nowhere — a ragged man with a filthy beard stepped into the middle of the road, waving his arms.
"Stop right there!" he bellowed, voice hoarse and mean.
The driver froze.
Who the hell was this?
He leaned forward for a better look.
The guy's face was black with grime, his teeth yellow as corn, his hair matted into ropes. He looked like every homeless addict Gotham had ever produced.
This isn't the flying one, the driver thought, bewildered. Who sends a bum to stop a convoy?
He hesitated, more confused than afraid, and cracked the window. "What do you want?"
The "bum" didn't answer. He just shoved two fingers into his mouth and blew a long, shrill whistle.
From the alleys and rooftops, twenty more figures poured out — men, women, even a few teenagers — all dressed like rejects from a thrift store.
Some had pistols. Most had pipes, bats, or crowbars.
The bearded man raised his shotgun and fired once into the air. Boom!
"Hand over half of what's in those trucks!" he shouted. "Do it, and maybe we let you go!"
Hidden behind a tree a few hundred meters away, Thea nearly laughed out loud.
And they call Gotham citizens hopeless. Look at these people — brave, spontaneous, civic-minded! Coming to help me for free, no less. Absolute angels.
But for the convoy, it was pure panic.
The lead driver wasn't stupid; he recognized local scavengers when he saw them. These weren't Scarecrow's men — just the city's bottom-feeders, trying to make a living off the chaos.
Poorly armed, disorganized, no training to speak of.
Against his dozen soldiers, they were toddlers.
He actually smirked.
That tiny curl of arrogance didn't go unnoticed.
The bearded bandit had sharp eyes — he saw the sneer and felt his blood boil. Mock me, huh? Let's see you mock this!
He pumped his shotgun and blasted the side mirror clean off.
"Didn't you hear me?" he roared. "Out of the truck, now!"
That was it.
The gunmen inside had been on edge all night, dragged from one crisis to the next. They were exhausted, jumpy, itching for a target.
The shotgun blast was all it took to snap the last thread of restraint.
The driver snatched up his radio. "Everyone out. Teach these rats a lesson."
Within seconds, doors flew open.
Three trucks. Twelve armed men. Helmets, body armor, rifles. They fanned out in practiced formation, ducking behind bumpers and concrete, their movements crisp and disciplined — a level above Gotham's usual rabble.
Even the beard froze mid-breath. His confidence evaporated.
Oh hell, he thought. They're soldiers… real ones.
He'd wanted pocket change, not a war.
But it was too late.
"Ready—" a voice barked from the convoy.
Thea tensed, eyes narrowing from her perch above. For a split second, she was as stunned as the bandits — she hadn't realized Scarecrow's people were this well equipped.
The command reached its second syllable — "—fire!" —
And that's when she released her arrow.
A single shot, perfectly timed, whistled through the dawn air and buried itself in the pavement between the two groups.
Thunk.
A deep hum rolled out, low and powerful — vmmm.
Then came the snap.
One by one, rifles, pistols, and shotguns wrenched themselves from their owners' hands, slamming toward the arrow's magnetized core. Metal screamed as it twisted and collided, sparks lighting up the street.
Within ten seconds, silence fell.
Every gun — every single one — hung fused around the arrowhead in a tangled hunk of smoking steel.
Both sides stared at their empty hands.
The thugs, the bandits, everyone.
Weapons gone. Mouths open.
Thea crossed her arms, floating high above them, and couldn't help but smirk.
"Gotham's finest," she muttered. "Can't tell the villains from the volunteers — but at least you're all disarmed."