[ Forest, Star City Outskirts ]
Thea could only grab his hair and found that this guy's hairstyle was... unique, to say the least. It looked like a trident had sprouted on top of his head, with one sharp protrusion sticking straight up like a Teletubby horn and two tufts stubbornly slicked back on either side. Under the dappled forest light, his hair flashed an eerie shade of green. Thea squinted. There had to be a dozen metallic objects tangled in that mess—
"Poison needles? Hidden blades? Or just really bad fashion sense?" she muttered.
How insidious! Was he trying to poison her with glitter and poor hygiene?
After a few seconds of searching for a clean place to grab, Thea gave up and switched tactics—from karate to taekwondo.
She kicked him in the knee with precision, forcing him to buckle and drop to one leg. In a fluid motion, she pivoted and delivered a controlled spin kick to his lower back. She was holding back—barely. If she hadn't, the guy might've ended up paralyzed. Even as it was, he was probably looking at one fewer kidney and a severely bruised spleen.
One idiot down. Two to go.
The remaining goons finally reacted, unleashing simultaneous, drunken war cries as they lunged at her. One, at least, had the decency to use a classic street-fighting move: fist cocked high like a cartoon character, ready to shout "Catch my punch!" The other, however, went full creep-mode, arms outstretched like he was coming in for a romantic hug.
Gross.
That one pissed her off.
Thea regretted tossing aside her bow and dagger earlier. Her shoes were new—fresh out of the box! And this sleazebag was about to soil them.
She ducked the punch from Mr. Obvious and delivered a brutal right kick to Creeper's cheek. Then a left. And finally, with a battle cry of "Go to hell!" she sent a high kick straight into his jaw. There was a crack—sharp, clean. His jaw was likely shattered. His cervical spine and collarbone wouldn't be celebrating anytime soon either.
That left one.
The last idiot stared at his fallen comrades, slowly processing the destruction. Something clicked. He turned and ran like his life depended on it—because it probably did.
No way was Thea letting him get away. He might not have disgusted her, but that didn't mean he deserved mercy. Besides, it was the perfect chance to test her archery. With that broad back practically begging to be a target, ignoring it would've been rude. A waste of such a generous opportunity!
She scooped up her bow, not bothering to focus much. Her instincts took over as she drew and released in one fluid motion. The arrow flashed like lightning through the foliage.
He screamed and dropped to the ground.
She'd aimed at his calf. Not fatal, but he'd be lucky to walk with a cane in three months.
Then she heard applause.
Malcolm, dressed in his usual all-black ensemble, stepped out from the shadows. His voice, as always, was low and gravelly. "Well done. It seems you've learned nearly everything I've taught you. But why didn't you kill them? They're not good people. What if they come back to retaliate?"
Thea had already anticipated the question. From the moment she guessed this whole encounter was one of Malcolm's twisted tests, she'd considered her answer.
To kill or not to kill? Classic dilemma. It's practically the golden thread woven through every American, Japanese, or so-called heroic comic ever made. You could lock people in a room and let them argue this for three days straight, and they'd still barely scratch the surface.
Most of the so-called paragons of justice cling to the "no kill" code like it's a sacred oath—Batman, The Flash, her brother Oliver… especially post-island, post-Slade, post-mountain of regrets Oliver. Even the ones who started their journey with blood on their hands usually end up throwing away their metaphorical swords and swearing off death for good.
Because let's be honest—this is the line. That invisible border between hero and villain. Cross it, and you're no longer "just misunderstood." You're dangerous. Stay on the right side of it, and maybe you still get invited to the Hall of Justice.
But life isn't as black and white as the comic books make it look.
She couldn't exactly throw the hero morality argument in the face of her villainous father, though. So instead, she borrowed Batman's logic and dressed it up with fate, chaos, and consequences.
Pointing to the first attacker, she said coldly, "That one? The one leaning against the tree vomiting blood? He's got subacute internal bleeding and spinal cord edema. If he doesn't get to a hospital immediately, pressure will build on his internal organs. That means spleen rupture, kidney failure, and mucosal detachment. He'll be lucky to survive."
She shifted her gaze to the creep on the ground. "This one's worse. If he doesn't receive emergency care in thirty minutes, he's dead. Even if he does make it, he'll be paralyzed for life. His central nervous system is toast. And judging by that jaw injury? He'll never speak again."
She pointed to the runner. "As for him, he'll survive—but he'll limp for the rest of his days. Nerve compression in his lower limbs is likely to trigger multiple sclerosis. Who knows what complications he'll face?"
She crossed her arms. "Also, I was standing in a backlit area the entire time. They never saw my face. And based on their outfits, I sincerely doubt they've got access to high-res facial scanners or hidden body cams."
Thea's tone chilled. "Because of my decision tonight, their lives are ruined. They could've turned over a new leaf—gotten married, lived mediocre but harmless lives. But because of me, that future's gone. That's the power of fate, isn't it?"
She met Malcolm's eyes and thought. You all like to talk about fate, so I'll talk to you about fate!
She'd just given a twisted remix of Batman's theory, wrapped in pseudo-philosophy and cruelty. Somewhere, Bruce Wayne was probably having a migraine.
Malcolm stared at her. He hadn't expected Thea to not only develop her own worldview but to argue it so confidently. Her logic made him pause.
Had he been doing it wrong all along?
But now… was death a mercy? Was letting someone live—letting them suffer, regret, remember—the real punishment?
And if so... had he spared far too many?
The realization was disquieting. Almost philosophical. And that made it worse.
He thought about his own grief. His wife had died, and it had hurt—but that was nothing compared to living in the aftermath. Twenty years of pain. Maybe Thea had a point.
Then he thought of Moira Queen, still mourning Robert and Oliver. They had died suddenly, and she'd been left in agony. Maybe… maybe letting people live with suffering was worse than killing them outright.
He hadn't figured it all out yet, but he was starting to agree with her—at least a little.
Still, that wasn't today's purpose.
"Whether you're right or wrong, those are your beliefs. Good. I trained you because you asked. And now there's only one step left. Show me what you've learned."
Malcolm drew his samurai sword. It gleamed in the moonlight as he pointed it at the ground and began walking toward her.
Thea narrowed her eyes.
So that's how it is? He wants a real fight now? No test, no play-acting?
She didn't hesitate. She drew her bow and fired.
"Snap! Snap!"
Arrows flew rapid-fire, six in total, slicing through the air and blanketing Malcolm's path. She knew it wouldn't slow him down—but it bought her a second.
Snatching up the her sword and dagger from the ground, Thea flipped backward and vanished into the shade of the trees.
To Be Continued...
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[POWER STONES AND REVIEWS PLS]