When Malcolm received the photo from his men showing Thea drinking alone, frustration welled up in him. Deep down, he had always cared about that girl. From the moment she was born—when their eyes first met—he had been quietly watching her grow. And now, at last, he understood the reason behind that inexplicable attention. The instant Moira spoke, he knew—no tests, no proof required. Years of life-and-death experience had honed his instincts, and they told him beyond doubt: she was his daughter.
Standing before the floor-to-ceiling window, he looked out over the night skyline of Star City. The sight that usually stirred endless thoughts now seemed utterly dull.
He poured himself a glass of whiskey and downed it in one go. Irritated and restless, he wanted to find someone to fight just to vent, but a quick look around reminded him—he was already the undisputed king of Star City. The Green Arrow was still stuck on that godforsaken island. Maybe he could head over to Gotham for some excitement? …No, bad idea. Malcolm knew exactly where he stood. In Star City, he was untouchable. In good old rough Gotham, he'd be barely above average—and with the Batman around, the son-in-law even Ra's al Ghul admired, picking a fight there was pure suicide.
While he was still brooding, his phone rang. It was the bar owner.
"Boss, uh… that lady you mentioned, she's drunk," the man said nervously, still unsure what to call her.
"Watch her. Make sure nothing happens. And tell your men—no one, and I mean no one, is to lay a finger on her! Got it?" Malcolm barked into the phone.
"Y-yes, sir!" The bar owner stammered, promising to carry out the order to the letter.
The command was clear enough: don't touch a finger. Which, obviously, applied to the men. He didn't have telekinesis—someone still had to move the girl. So he chased all the rough guys far away, as if their mere presence polluted the air, and told two of his mistresses to carry Thea into an unused guest room. They were to stay inside, tend to her, fetch towels, pour water—whatever she needed. The owner then dragged a big chair to the door, sat down, pulled out his handgun, and began checking it with grim determination—like a loyal guard ready to stay awake all night outside his lord's tent.
Malcolm, watching from a rooftop, felt reasonably satisfied with the man's loyalty. He knew his underlings too well; if anything happened after too much drinking, he'd regret it for life. Hanging up, he didn't bother with a car. Instead, he donned his League of Assassins gear, slung his bow across his back, and vaulted across rooftops toward the bar. If some idiot dared cause trouble tonight, he was in just the right mood to put an arrow through their skull.
In truth, Thea wasn't completely drunk—she still had a sliver of awareness left. Seeing everyone around her acting like she was under siege, she relaxed a little. When two women helped her into a bedroom, she finally drifted off into a deep sleep.
…
Ugh, her head was pounding. So it was true—even the finest liquor still led to hangovers. Rubbing her temples, Thea sat up and realized her clothes were perfectly intact, not even her shoelaces undone. She had to admit—her "cheap dad" sure knew how to keep his men in line.
"Do you… need anything, miss?" The two women who'd stayed up all night rushed over, still groggy but eager to play the part of attentive handmaids.
Thea pointed to one of them. "Get me some water." The woman's face was caked in makeup, her chest stuffed like a pair of bowling balls. She hadn't even changed her heels, clacking noisily across the floor. Thea found it irritating just listening to her walk.
The other woman helped her wash her face and comb her hair. Once Thea confirmed nothing seemed out of place, she strode confidently out of the bar. A car was already waiting outside; one of Malcolm's men held the door open and asked for directions. "Queen Manor," she said coolly.
As for the bill? She'd completely forgotten—and honestly, she had bigger things on her mind. The bar staff, meanwhile, watched her car disappear two miles down the road before the boss finally stopped waving goodbye. No one dared mention money; everyone there was smart enough to know better.
"Oh, darling, you're finally home!" Moira cried the moment Thea stepped inside. Before Thea could say a word, her mother threw her arms around her, sobbing uncontrollably.
Her mother was such a paradoxical woman. Her influence wasn't as extensive as Malcolm's, but she wasn't the type to work with small-time players either. When she later ran for mayor, her power and connections were clear for all to see. She must have known Thea spent the night at the bar—there was no way she didn't—but her worry and affection now were genuine, not an act.
Sighing softly, Thea patted her mother's back. "Mom, I'm fine. I just need a little time alone. I'm going to rest."
Back in her room, she changed into pajamas and collapsed onto the bed. She hadn't slept well at the bar, afraid she'd talk in her sleep and reveal something dangerous. The past day had been a blur of half-truths and half-acting, and even her resilient mind was worn out. But the mission was complete. In gaming terms, she'd successfully unlocked Malcolm's faction reputation—and not just any level, but Exalted! That meant the conditions for learning skills were fully met. Her next phase: accelerated growth.
Meanwhile, in Central City's S.T.A.R. Labs, Dr. Harrison Wells—better known in truth as Eobard Thawne, the Reverse-Flash—entered his secret chamber. Facing the wall, he spoke softly:
"Gideon, have you located the source of the temporal variance we detected earlier?"
A pale blue holographic figure flickered to life. "Doctor, the time displacement variable is too minor. I can only detect its presence somewhere in Star City. To pinpoint further, I'll need more computational resources."
That gave Wells a headache. Gideon had been designed by the future Flash himself, using technology a century ahead of this primitive era. For someone from the future, this time period was like the Stone Age. The fact that he'd managed to build and operate an AI of this sophistication here was already a miracle. Increasing its processing power with modern tech? That would take every scientist on Earth working together.
Still, the variance was small—insignificant, even. It shouldn't affect his plan.
Sighing, he thought to himself: ten years in this world, stripped of his speed, pretending to be a frail, sickly scientist—it was exhausting. Worse, he had to spend all that effort nurturing his own nemesis, the Flash. For a supervillain, that level of irony was unmatched in history.
"Keep monitoring Star City's news feeds," he ordered Gideon. "Report any anomalies immediately."
With that, Wells—no need to feign paralysis yet—walked briskly out of the chamber.