Felicity Smoak—forr semi-notorious hacker, newly reford and still adjusting to the concept of “lawful behavior”—hesitated only for a second.
Sure, she knew Catwoman’s so-called “borrowing” of art was a cri, but really, were hackers the kind of people who clutched pearls over legality?
“Why not ask Thea?” Felicity finally asked, curiosity getting the better of her. “You two get along better than you and I do. Why co to ?”
Selina’s eyes glead with admiration. Ever since she’d t the Star City duo, she’d been half in awe, half envious. They always seed to pull the most impossible gadgets out of nowhere—the kind of whimsical tech Batman’s brooding arsenals could never match.
Compared to Bruce’s endless parade of tanks, planes, and bat-shaped angst, Thea and Felicity’s inventions were sleek, clever, and—most importantly—useful.
Now she looked at Felicity the sa way Nobita looked at Doraemon: part wonder, part hopeful greed.
Still, she did pause to consider the question. “Maybe it’s her… background,” Selina said at last. “She’s a proper heiress, you know? I just don’t see her approving of my thods. But you—” she gave a sly grin—“you’re like . You get it. I think you can help.”
Felicity stared at her, torn between amusent and insult.
What’s that supposed to an? That I’m shady? Or broke?
Also—did this woman seriously think Thea was a good girl? Clearly, Selina had fallen for the whole “innocent debutante” act.
To be fair, Selina’s read wasn’t entirely wrong. Thea, for all her wit, was cautious. Raised in privilege, she still had one foot firmly planted in the “law-abiding citizen” camp. Unless it was a matter of life and death, she wouldn’t break the rules outright.
By RPG standards, she was definitely a Lawful type—whether Lawful Good or Lawful Neutral was still up for debate.
Felicity, on the other hand, had no such qualms.
She was young, unattached, and powered by equal parts caffeine and chaos. If she hadn’t liked trouble, she wouldn’t have volunteered to tag along to this mad city.
“Fine,” she sighed, tapping away on her tablet. “Here, take this. But after this, I don’t know anything, got it?”
She synced her tablet to an old phone, fingers flying. A few quick commands later, she handed the device over and sauntered away, humming.
Selina examined the phone. Only one app sat on the screen: “ArtScan 2.2.”
Opening it revealed a minimal interface—simple, clean, effective. Point it at an artifact, and it would scan for age, material composition, and known production thods. The database was massive—even obscure Malay and Balinese collections were catalogued.
It didn’t label anything “real” or “fake,” but for Selina’s needs, that was irrelevant. As long as the era matched the story she’d tell later, that was authenticity enough.
“Ha!” Selina chuckled. “You’re not as innocent as you look, are you?”
No one just happened to have a black-market-grade art authentication app lying around. Clearly, Felicity had coded this long ago and simply never needed to use it—until now.
This, Selina thought, was going to make business much easier. The thought of her revived “career” made her giddy. For a mont, she even stopped worrying about poor Bruce, still laid up sowhere between life and death.
That evening, Robin and Barbara—now freshly rested and recharged—brought in another petty Gotham villain: Electrocutioner.
Apparently, this guy ca from a long “family line” of electro-torturers.
Thea took one look at the middle-aged man’s serious expression and had to suppress a laugh.
He was wearing a homade rig that looked suspiciously like an electric scooter battery strapped to his back, with two wires running to his gloves. His “superpower” was zapping people on contact. Against civilians, it was actually pretty effective.
But Gordon had busted enough of his “ancestors” over the years to know the family’s Achilles’ heel: water.
You didn’t even have to prepare anything fancy—just stand three ters away, open a bottle of Gatorade, and splash him in the face.
Instant short-circuit.
Thirty years, Thea thought, staring in disbelief. Thirty years of this sa stupid gimmick, and they’re still at it. A whole bloodline of electric idiots keeping the tradition alive.
She shook her head and returned to her dinner—a black bass fillet and a cheeseburger—determined not to laugh out loud.
Just as she was preparing to enjoy a quiet few days, waiting for Bruce Wayne to recover so she could bow out of this city with her dignity (and maybe a modest payday), soone ca looking for her.
“Miss Queen,” said a uniford officer whose na she couldn’t recall, “the Commissioner requests your presence in the conference room.”
“Oh? Alright.”
She frowned slightly as she followed him. What now? Surely Batman wasn’t back already. A broken spine wasn’t exactly a twenty-four-hour injury.
When she entered the room, only Gordon, Barbara, and a woman in black were present. Felicity, Robin, and Catwoman were absent.
“Miss Queen,” Gordon said, “this is Lyla Michaels, senior field agent for the Advanced Research Group for Uniting Superhumans. She’s here about Killer Croc.”
Thea blinked. ARGUS?
So this was their first eting. Lyla Michaels—the future Mrs. John Diggle. She glanced down at the woman’s hand: no ring yet.
Interesting.
Thea studied her face. Younger, sharper—none of that weary, world-weary cynicism she’d have years later. Right now, Lyla still looked like she believed in things.
“Pleasure to et you.”
“Likewise,” Lyla replied, shaking her hand. Her grip was firm, professional.
In truth, Lyla hadn’t expected to find Thea Queen here of all places. Her orders were simple: assess and secure the frozen tahuman known as Killer Croc. But after hearing a few reports about this young heiress from Star City, she decided an introduction was worth the effort.
“Miss Queen,” she began, “I’ve examined the ice containnt. Can you tell —under natural conditions—how long it would take him to thaw?”
Thea blinked. That’s your first question?
She turned to Gordon, brow furrowed. “Didn’t Felicity tell you already before I went to sleep?”
The Commissioner winced. “She… may have forgotten.”
Of course she did.
Thea rubbed her temples. Star City’s reputation, tarnished by one distracted genius. Clearing her throat, she answered briskly:
“Under normal ambient temperature? Roughly three days. Species doesn’t matter—giant or dwarf, sa principle. As for regaining consciousness—if he were human, neural recovery would take anywhere from fifteen to thirty days. For him, though…” she shrugged, “five days minimum, maybe more. I didn’t take samples, so that’s just a rough estimate.”
At that, both Gordon and Barbara visibly relaxed. Five days was plenty of breathing room.
Lyla, however, simply nodded with cool composure, her expression unreadable.
A professional among amateurs.
And with that, Gotham’s frozen monster had officially entered A.R.G.U.S.’s radar.
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