Chapter 7: Mansion Siege
The Queen Consolidated Gala was a glittering trap, its opulence a fragile mask over the threat Luke felt coiling in his gut. The borrowed tuxedo chafed at his neck, the stiff collar reeking faintly of cologne that wasn't his, its musky scent clashing with the sweet, cloying aroma of champagne and roses filling the Queen mansion's ballroom. Crystal chandeliers cast warm light over polished floors, the hum of polite chatter and clinking glasses a deceptive lullaby. Luke adjusted his bowtie, his fingers fumbling, the fabric slipping before he got it right. Undercover hero or awkward penguin? Jury's out. He popped a mint from his pocket, the sharp tang grounding him as he scanned the crowd, his heart thudding against the tux's tight fit. Slade's coming for Moira. I can feel it.
The System pinged, a lifeline in the glittering chaos, its interface glowing in his mind like a beacon.
[SYSTEM: DAILY ROLL ACTIVATED: MANTIS EMPATHY (FACE 5)]
[SYSTEM: POWER ACTIVATED: EMOTIONAL SENSING. STAMINA DRAIN: LOW]
A wave of cold, predatory focus hit him, sharp and jagged, cutting through the crowd's warm buzz of excitement and boredom. Assassins. League or Slade's mercenaries, doesn't matter—they're here. His fingers tightened around a champagne flute, the glass cool against his palm, his knuckles whitening as he forced a smile, nodding at a passing socialite who didn't notice his tension. Party crashers with murder on the guest list. Classic Starling.
He slipped away from the ballroom, his polished shoes clicking on the marble floor, and ducked into a shadowed hallway, the air cooler, tinged with the faint must of old wood. Using Falcon Flight's subtle lift, he ascended silently to the mansion's roof, the night air sharp with the scent of rain-soaked shingles. The city sprawled below, its lights a constellation of danger, the distant hum of traffic a restless pulse. His jacket flapped in the breeze, his breath visible as he crouched, scanning the grounds, his heart racing.
[SYSTEM: FLIGHT SURVEYS MANSION PERIMETER.]
[SYSTEM: STAT UPDATE: AGILITY +2 (MANEUVERING).]
Security patrolled below, their radios crackling faintly, but Luke spotted the gaps—two marksmen on adjacent rooftops, their rifles glinting faintly, and a five-man ground team scaling the terrace wall, their movements silent but purposeful, aiming for where Moira Queen would soon speak. His stomach twisted, the mint's aftertaste souring. They're not here for hors d'oeuvres. He moved through the roof's ornate shadows, his steps light, the System humming as he planned his next move, his fingers brushing a loose shingle that clattered softly, making him wince. Smooth, Luke. Real stealthy.
Moira stepped to the podium, her poised smile a stark contrast to the chaos about to erupt. The ballroom's windows shattered inward, glass spraying like jagged rain, the marksmen's shots sparking panic, screams piercing the air. Luke's heart lurched, his body moving before his mind caught up, adrenaline flooding his veins. He darted forward, weaving through the crowd, his tux tearing at the shoulder as he shoved past a stunned guest, his champagne flute abandoned on a table.
He grabbed a handful of silver appetizer forks from a dessert tray, their weight cold and solid, and channeled Hawkeye's precision, his fingers steady despite the chaos.
[SYSTEM: ARCHERY DISARMS.]
[SYSTEM: POWER ACTIVATED: UNERRING AIM. STAMINA DRAIN: MODERATE]
The forks flew, slicing through the air with impossible accuracy, striking the marksmen's hands a hundred feet away, their rifles clattering to the rooftops as they cursed, pain echoing in their voices. Luke's chest tightened, the effort burning through his stamina, sweat beading on his brow. Bought us seconds. Better make 'em count.
"Oliver! Diggle! Moira's the target! Get her out!" Luke shouted into his comms, his voice hoarse, dodging a fleeing guest who dropped a glass, its shatter sharp in his ears.
Oliver and Diggle surged forward, Oliver's green leather a blur, Diggle's broad frame shielding Moira as they pushed through the crowd. The ground team—mercenaries, not League—breached the ballroom, their boots thudding, weapons drawn. Luke's pulse raced, his legs trembling as he faced the panicked crowd, their fear a tidal wave through his empathy. I'm the only one who can clear this room.
He closed his eyes, the Mystic Arts surging, his hands tracing patterns as orange light flared, the air crackling with heat. Two massive portals opened—one over the mansion's driveway, the other swallowing the ballroom floor, their edges shimmering like molten gold.
"Evac express! Through the orange circles! Move!" Luke bellowed, his voice cutting through the screams, his arms shaking as he held the portals, the effort squeezing his skull like a vice.
Guests surged through, their heels clicking, dresses rustling, the scent of perfume and fear thick in the air. Luke stood firm, a lone figure between the mercenaries and the evacuation, his portals a glowing wall, his vision blurring, his breath ragged. Keep it together, Luke. You're not collapsing now.
[SYSTEM: MAGIC PORTALS EVACUATE. STAMINA DRAIN: CRITICAL.]
Oliver and Diggle shoved Moira through the portal just as the mercenaries opened fire, bullets sparking against the closing edge. Luke slammed the portals shut, teleporting himself to the driveway, collapsing onto the cobblestones, their cold bite grounding him as he gasped, his tux damp with sweat.
[SYSTEM: STAMINA DRAIN: CRITICAL.]
Moira was safe in the Arrowcave's medical bay, her hands trembling as she clutched a blanket, the air heavy with antiseptic and the faint hum of monitors. Oliver paced, his fist slamming a metal table, the clang echoing, his face pale with rage, his green hood discarded, revealing sweat-matted hair. Thea sat beside her mother, her eyes still shadowed from her own ordeal, her fingers twisting a loose thread on her sleeve.
Luke leaned against a wall, the faint scent of Sara's jasmine perfume on his tux a strange comfort, his coffee cup lukewarm in his hand, its chipped rim catching his thumb. He sipped, grimacing at the bitterness, and approached Moira, his steps heavy, his empathy reaching for her guilt and love, a tangled knot of emotion.
[SYSTEM: EMPATHY EASES GUILT.]
[SYSTEM: BONDING MOMENT: LUKE/MOIRA. +15 EP.]
"You've made hard choices, Mrs. Queen," Luke said softly, meeting her eyes, his voice steady despite the ache in his chest. "But you'd burn the world for your kids. You're a fighter. Tell them the truth—before it's too late."
Moira's gaze flickered to Oliver and Thea, her shoulders easing, a spark of resolve breaking through her guilt. She nodded, her fingers tightening around Thea's hand, a silent promise. Oliver paused, his jaw unclenching slightly, his eyes softening as he looked at his mother.
Luke stepped back, sipping his coffee, the burn grounding him. He activated ghost form briefly, the world dulling as he scanned the mansion's perimeter and the city beyond, the air cold and heavy with the threat of rain.
[SYSTEM: SCOUT DETECTS SLADE TIES.]
The attack's precision screamed Slade Wilson, not Isabel's corporate amateurs. He's pulling the strings, and he's not stopping. Luke's fingers tightened around the cup, crushing it slightly, coffee dripping onto his shoe. He cursed softly, wiping it with his sleeve, the stain spreading. Moira's safe, the cure's ready, but Slade's vendetta is personal. Nyssa's next, and she's not bringing flowers.
To supporting Me in Pateron .
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