At first glance, it looked utterly ordinary — just a simple old painting.
And yet, staring at it, Thea felt something inexplicable gnawing at her mind, as though her willpower were slowly being drained away.
From the painted sky, from the trees, even from the empty spaces between, faint whispers seemed to echo — soft as a breath of wind, impossible to catch.
No matter how hard she tried to focus, she couldn't make out a single word.
"Hey, what's wrong with you?"
Catwoman's voice broke through the haze. She'd been waiting for Thea's reaction for ages, and when she still didn't respond, Selina gave her a little shove.
"Huh? I—"
Thea blinked, realizing she'd gone completely still. She glanced back at the painting — the strange pull she'd felt before was gone.
But the whispers… the whispers were still there, faint and fluttering like something just beyond hearing.
There was definitely something wrong with this thing.
But was it affecting only her? Or everyone?
She decided to test it.
"What do you think — what period is this painting from?"
"Software says—" Catwoman caught herself mid-sentence, almost blurting out that she'd asked Felicity for help. She coughed. "I mean, I think it's at least a thousand years old."
Thea barely noticed the slip.
She was too busy watching Selina's expression.
She unrolled the canvas again and asked casually,
"And what do you think of the brushwork? Any idea which master painter might've done it?"
Catwoman had already examined it several times. If she'd been able to identify it, she'd have sold it ages ago.
She just shrugged.
"No clue."
Thea watched her carefully. Nothing.
No dazed look, no trance — just lazy disinterest.
The contrast with her own reaction was striking.
So it only reacts to me? she thought.
A ridiculous phrase suddenly popped into her mind — this item and I are fated.
Well then, fate or not, she'd buy it.
When she asked the price, Catwoman hesitated.
Selling a damaged, obviously stolen artifact to a friend wasn't exactly noble.
But she was dead broke, and even heroes had to eat.
So after a moment of guilt, she named what she thought was a "low" friends-only price.
Thea, though technically broke herself, was still a Wayne-level "broke billionaire."
She tossed out a few wads of cash without blinking.
The deal was done, and both sides walked away satisfied —
Catwoman, smug that she'd finally scored some quick money;
Thea, amused that she'd probably just bought something truly unusual.
When Selina dashed off — likely before Thea could change her mind — Thea just shook her head.
If this thing was as strange as she suspected, she hadn't been conned at all.
In fact, she pitied Catwoman's lack of vision. Poor thing — destined to stay broke forever.
Back at camp, the group gathered to discuss the "superweapon" Talia had mentioned.
Batman, ever the master of selective hearing, didn't ask where Thea had gotten the intel.
Gordon and the others, less suspicious, simply listened.
They tossed ideas back and forth but got nowhere.
No one local could recall any hidden weapon project in Gotham's history.
Gordon interrogated Penguin and Scarecrow again — nothing.
Lyla's undercover agents came up empty as well.
The only new information was that Bane had finally recovered his senses after two days — now refusing all visitors and hiding out in Arkham to heal.
Meanwhile, the surviving crime families were tearing each other apart over territory and leftover manpower.
The Court of Owls didn't intervene.
In short, aside from the mysterious "superweapon," everything else was going unusually well.
Thea had retired her red leather jacket and switched to the high-density Kevlar combat suit Batman had provided.
Wayne Enterprises' biotech and composite materials divisions were world-class,
and the suit could stop a handgun at close range — even rifle fire at a hundred meters would only dent the fibers.
Of course, she had to keep her personal flair.
The color scheme stayed red.
As for the cape that came with it? She politely declined.
Sure, it looked cool — but it was also the number one thing enemies grabbed to slam you into the ground.
How many times had Supergirl's cape nearly gotten her killed?
Some lessons, it seemed, no hero ever learned.
Still, the material was high-quality, and she didn't want to waste it.
So, under Batman's mildly offended gaze, she handed it off to Felicity as a souvenir.
At least her trip to Gotham hadn't been for nothing.
Batman's recovery progressed rapidly — far faster than any normal human could manage.
In less than a month, he was nearly back to full strength.
Thea, now wearing Wayne-tech armor, spent hours sparring with him to aid his rehabilitation.
Though not yet at his peak, Bruce still held his own; their fighting styles — his heavy and precise, hers light and fluid — balanced perfectly.
With every bout, Thea's skill improved.
Her combat instincts were evolving toward mastery, already developing a distinct personal style.
Give her a bit more time, and she might just earn a place on Prometheus's list of the world's thirty greatest fighters.
When Barbara asked about Wing Chun, both Thea and Bruce admitted they knew it — though in Bruce's case, his stiff, awkward movements made Thea cringe.
She ended up becoming his impromptu instructor.
Oddly enough, since Thea had stepped back from command, Barbara's attitude had softened.
The girl who used to challenge her at every turn now occasionally invited her out for coffee or shopping.
Their relationship was no longer nearly as tense.
In her free time, Thea threw herself into crafting new arrowheads.
With Wayne Industries footing the bill, it was open season on resources.
By the end of the week, she'd restocked all her high-tech arrows — and, thanks to Firefly's black-market connections, added ten new fire arrows fueled by her signature napalm.
As for Gotham's leadership — with Bane in hiding, Gordon had rescued the captured city officials.
They looked annoyingly healthy, not at all like people who'd suffered.
The mayor, terrified by Gordon's growing influence, practically handed over full control of the city's affairs, citing "serious injuries" as his excuse for hiding at home.
Days passed.
By night, Thea found herself drawn again and again to that painting.
She'd analyzed it with every instrument available — carbon dating confirmed it was indeed a thousand years old —
but nothing matched its imagery to any known artwork or culture.
One sleepless night, restless and irritable, she found herself staring at it again.
That faint, elusive whisper returned — closer this time, curling around her ears.
No matter how she strained to listen, the words remained indistinct — until suddenly, a low, muffled voice rose through the haze:
"Come to me… I can help you… I'm not a bad person…"
The tone was different this time — deeper, echoing as if from far underground.
Thea's instincts flared.
Go take a look.
Of course, it wasn't because the voice claimed to be "not a bad person."
Every villain in history had started with "good intentions."
She'd just check for herself — and deal with whatever it was accordingly.