From her perch among the trees, Thea watched the chaos unfold below and nodded, pleased.
Good. Very good. That leveled the field nicely.
With both sides suddenly stripped of guns, it was now a fair fight — fists, pipes, and pure madness. Exactly the kind of environment Gotham's "enthusiastic citizens" thrived in.
The two groups, however, had no idea they'd been manipulated.
The magnetic pull had been so fast that no one even saw the arrow; they only saw a dozen rifles and shotguns rip from their hands and hurtle into midair, slamming together into a hunk of twisted metal now standing upright in the middle of the street.
"What the hell is that?" someone gasped.
Another man blinked in horror. "My— my gun! It just flew away!"
Once Scarecrow's men realized their precious firepower was gone, panic rippled through the ranks. Two of them immediately turned to climb back into the trucks — retreat was better than a knife fight with lunatics.
But Gotham's lunatics weren't about to let them go.
Thea activated her voice modulator, lowering her tone into a gravelly snarl.
"They're running! Don't let them get away!"
The order boomed through the trees, and before the mercenaries could blink, the ragtag locals surged forward again.
Thea nocked a normal arrow, aimed for the one man sprinting fastest toward the truck, and let it fly. The distance was long — over two hundred meters — but she didn't need a headshot.
The arrow hissed through the air and found its mark with a sharp thwack!
The man screamed, his leg giving out mid-step. He toppled backward off the truck bed and hit the ground with a crunch.
A few of his comrades were smart enough to realize something unseen was happening — but by the time they barked "Get back in the trucks!" it was too late.
Because Gotham's citizens, bless their deranged little hearts, had just gone berserk.
The moment they saw one of the armored men fall, any trace of fear vanished.
Their blood boiled, their eyes lit up, and the collective thought blazing in their minds was simple: They're scared of us.
And then — pandemonium.
Wielding pipes, bats, and rusty knives, the mob roared forward.
Scarecrow's men had been trained for combat, but even they weren't immune to chaos.
Within seconds, the two groups crashed together in a blur of swinging metal and flailing limbs.
"Idiots," Thea muttered, watching from the treeline. "Brave, but idiotic."
Still, she couldn't just stand by. The mercenaries were cutting through the mob like wolves among sheep. Even injured and outnumbered, their coordination and reflexes were impressive — within moments, two of the civilians were down, one of them the bearded man who'd started it all, now coughing blood into the dirt.
Thea sighed. Guess I can't just watch anymore.
She wasn't about to charge in barehanded, though — that wasn't her style. She'd come to help, not to get stabbed.
And "help" meant balance.
Whoever had the upper hand, she'd shoot them.
She raised her bow again, spotting a soldier dual-wielding knives, spinning them like a human blender. The man's arms and legs were unarmored — perfect.
Thwip. Thwip.
Arrow after arrow flew, each one striking precisely where she aimed.
Her board hummed softly beneath her, gliding between trees like a phantom, impossible to track.
By the time anyone realized what was happening, four of Scarecrow's men were already down, arrows jutting from knees and shoulders. A fifth was tackled by the mob.
The tide turned fast — eleven men reduced to six, facing nearly twenty furious Gothamites.
Now the soldiers' training meant nothing. Surrounded, overwhelmed, they fought back-to-back, knuckles white, muttering prayers to a god who probably wanted no part in this.
Thea tilted her head. Six versus eighteen. Yeah, no. That's not fair either.
She sighed dramatically. "Fine, I'll help them this round."
Her bow swung around again — and this time, her arrows targeted the mob.
Without body armor, they dropped fast, one after another, yelping in pain as arrows thudded into shoulders and thighs. Within thirty seconds, eight of Gotham's "heroes" were writhing on the ground.
Now it was six versus ten — balanced once more.
Both sides finally stopped, panting, bewildered. It didn't take long for someone to notice the obvious.
"Wait—these arrows…" a burly man said, staring at the shafts sticking out of his comrades. "Who the hell's shooting us?!"
The realization dawned on both groups at once.
There was a third player in the fight.
The surviving civilians stopped swinging their bats and began scanning the treeline nervously.
Thea frowned. Nope. Not letting you find me.
She reached for her next trick — one she hadn't tested yet.
The smoke arrow.
A gift from Batman's stash, modified with Felicity's gadgets, but never field-tested.
"Well," she whispered, setting it to her bowstring, "no time like the present."
Whoosh.
The arrow landed dead center between the two groups.
A brief hiss, a tremor in the air — then fwoom!
A thick white cloud burst outward, swallowing the entire battlefield in seconds.
The street vanished beneath the fog.
Coughs and shouts rang out from within, disoriented and confused.
Thea grinned behind her mask.
"Perfect."