Completely unaware that the GCPD had already labeled her "the ruthless one," Thea cut through the dawn air like a gust of wind, racing back toward Gotham University.
Sure enough, Catwoman hadn't lied — the battle there was over.
Because of the number of civilians in the area, the A.R.G.U.S. gunship had only dared to circle menacingly overhead. Spraying the crowd below with heavy machine-gun fire wasn't exactly on the table. So the fight had been short, sharp, and, compared to the blood-soaked massacre Thea had left behind on the highway, almost civilized.
Here and there, GCPD officers were spraying mist from canisters, neutralizing the remnants of Scarecrow's fear toxin. The acrid stench clung to the air.
Thea took three quick strides up the steps and into the mobile command van.
Lyla was nowhere in sight. Catwoman and Barbara were sitting side by side, drenched in sweat, breathing heavily. Felicity was slumped over a table, head resting on her folded arms; she barely lifted a hand when Thea entered.
"Did you find Scarecrow?" Thea asked, though from the look of them she already knew the answer.
Barbara shook her head weakly. "Didn't see him. He must've run."
She sounded embarrassed, and no wonder — though her opponents had only been three thugs, the fight had nearly wrecked her. There were bandages across her shoulder and forearm, both slowly seeping through with red.
When she finished answering, she asked the only thing that mattered to her, voice trembling:
"Robin—did he come back with you?"
"Relax," Thea said, waving it off. "I came back first. He'll be here in a minute. Gordon's keeping an eye on him."
And surely, Thea thought privately, the good old commissioner wouldn't take this opportunity to accidentally stab his future son-in-law in his sleep.
Barbara exhaled, shoulders slumping in relief. She gave Thea a grateful nod and said no more.
Thea leaned toward Selina. "So," she whispered, "what've you been up to these days?"
"Primitive accumulation of capital," Catwoman replied elegantly.
Thea blinked. That… was a lofty way of saying grand larceny.
For a moment, she was tempted to exchange notes with this fellow practitioner of "redistribution." Which wealthy targets were softest? Which vaults could be cracked without hurting the hero brand?
But before she could ask, the roar of engines interrupted them — three large trucks rumbled slowly into the campus square.
Conversation over.
Thea patted Barbara's shoulder. "Your boyfriend's probably back. Go see him."
Barbara wiped her face with her sleeve and, without thinking, hurried toward the sound. Selina rushed to steady her, muttering that the girl was going to end up more injured on her feet than she'd been in combat.
"Once they're all here, call everyone back for a briefing," Thea called after them, waving lazily. She wasn't about to go outside herself — the air was thick with the residue of gas and neutralizing chemicals, a nauseating cocktail that made her want to gag.
Catwoman half-carried Barbara across the courtyard. It wasn't far before they spotted Robin sitting against a wall, eyes glazed, looking completely lost.
Once the bright, sharp young man, he now looked like someone who'd seen his GPA implode.
Barbara rushed forward and threw her arms around him, babbling through tears about the night's chaos. Robin's face darkened with shame — he hadn't helped anyone, just been another body to rescue. His pride smarted worse than any wound.
Catwoman, recognizing a lovers' reunion when she saw one, turned away. She'd been around Bruce long enough to know when to make herself scarce. It wouldn't do for the "mentor" to catch the kids in some sappy display of affection.
As she wandered off, something else caught her eye — two GCPD officers struggling to unload a man from one of the trucks. The guy had three arrows sticking out of him like flagpoles.
Catwoman squinted.
Ah. That has Thea written all over it.
She hadn't witnessed Thea's fighting firsthand, but let's be honest — who else in Gotham still used a bow and arrow?
Curious, she wandered closer for a better look.
The victim's outfit was unmistakable — standard-issue armor and helmet from Scarecrow's squad. Those armored suits had been a nightmare to fight; she and Barbara had each barely managed to take down their share — four for her, three for Barbara — and even then they were both half-dead from exhaustion.
By comparison, the sight in front of her was… staggering.
More trucks arrived, each unloading more of Scarecrow's men, all similarly skewered with arrows — arms, legs, shoulders, none fatal, but none superficial either. In total, thirty of them lay side by side on the ground, like props in a medieval war film after the extras had finished playing dead.
Catwoman's composure slipped from calm curiosity, to surprise… and finally, open-mouthed disbelief.
She… she took down this many? Alone?
Meanwhile, a few police officers had tried to remove the arrows for medical treatment — only to realize Thea's custom shafts weren't ordinary. Each one had barbed heads, designed to cause maximum trauma coming out.
One unlucky rookie learned that lesson the hard way. He yanked too hard, tearing the wound open into a gaping hole that sprayed blood like a fountain.
Fortunately, Gotham's police academy still taught first aid. He wrapped the man's arm in rags and somehow kept him alive, but no one else dared touch the arrows after that.
"Leave them in," another officer muttered. "If it's still stuck, he's still breathing."
Nobody argued.
So the criminals were left in their impromptu acupuncture treatment, laid out neatly on the asphalt, waiting for medics.
Catwoman stood over the grisly display, speechless.
Thirty armed men… every one alive but crippled…
Her tail of a thought twisted between awe and fear.
Just what kind of monster is that girl?