It turned out that even pretending to be a model citizen wasn't as easy as it looked.
After three days of playing the dutiful daughter and campaign mascot, Thea was already bored to death. Her blank expression—really just the result of her mind being elsewhere, deciphering runes on her necklace—was quickly seized upon by the media.
By the fourth day, a tidal wave of gossip hit the airwaves and headlines.
"Queen Family Heiress Too Proud for the People—Former Classmates Speak Out!"
"Thea Queen: Party Girl Gone Wild, Spotted Drinking Until Dawn!"
The tabloids had gone feral.
Moira told her not to take it to heart—it was nothing but political sabotage from rival candidates.
And Thea understood that. She'd been put on stage as a lightning rod; someone had to take the hits. Gossip was the oxygen of politics, after all. In America, the press never needed proof to assassinate a reputation—only a slow news day.
At least, she thought wryly, she had it easier than Bruce Wayne. He spent his nights saving Gotham and his days being crucified by reporters. Compared to that, her PR nightmare was mild.
Still, the campaign's PR team of fresh-faced "young professionals" was panicking. To them, optics were life and death. So one brave soul was elected—unlucky him—to go talk to Thea Queen.
"Miss Queen, um…" he began, visibly trembling.
He'd memorized his talking points ten times over downstairs, but standing in front of her now—seeing that calm, sharp, almost ethereal presence—his mind turned to mush.
This was a woman who had personally fought through Gotham's bloodiest urban battles, left hundreds of corpses in her wake, crippled thousands more, and bent fate itself through sheer will. Of course, he didn't know that. But some primal part of him felt it. Her aura wasn't human—it was predatory, ancient.
At that moment, Thea was lost in thought, her mind circling around the seventh rune on her necklace.
That one symbol was a bridge between two entire sequences of the enchantment—if she could crack it, the rest might fall into place.
The young man's nervous stammer shattered her focus. Irritation flickered across her features. She raised her gaze slightly, eyes gleaming like polished glass—silent, expectant, faintly threatening.
Say it. Then leave.
The poor man nearly dropped his clipboard. He swore her eyes were glowing. Was that a trick of the light?
"W-we… the campaign team… we were hoping you could, um… be a bit more approachable. Y-you know, less… cold?" he managed, voice cracking at least twice.
Then, before she could respond, he plastered on a sickly smile, nodded too fast, and bolted out of the room.
Thea exhaled through her nose. Not a suitor, then. Good.
Ever since she'd returned from Gotham, she'd been surrounded by an endless parade of self-proclaimed admirers—sending flowers, inventing excuses to "bump into her," or lingering at events just to talk.
She could handle criminals and mercenaries with bullets and blades, but this swarm of buzzing insects? There was no socially acceptable way to shoot them.
Just a few more days, she told herself. Once Moira's citywide tour was over, she could finally rest.
As for the so-called "cold expression"? She couldn't help it. Her mind was always elsewhere—half in magic, half in theory. How could anyone smile and giggle while mentally translating ancient enchantment syntax?
The campaign interns took politics far too seriously anyway. The outcome had already been decided long before the first speech.
In the city council, Malcolm controlled a block of loyalists. Moira had her own faction. The Court of Owls' invisible tendrils, despite their supposed "Gotham exclusivity," could still sway a few key votes. Add in the influence of A.R.G.U.S., and the election was essentially a scripted play.
Public opinion? Decorative. The result was already printed.
Shaking off the thought, Thea returned to her rune analysis.
"Take the car home first, honey," Moira said later that day, slipping on a tailored jacket. "I've got a dinner event to attend."
Perfect.
Thea loathed those networking dinners—an ocean of smug, overweight "self-made men" whose bodies oozed cholesterol and hypocrisy. She gave her mother a hug, waved off the bodyguards, and climbed into the driver's seat herself.
With her own combat ability, she could take down ten of those guards barehanded anyway. Armed and empowered, she could level a city block. The extra muscle was just for show.
Still, she checked the car's undercarriage before starting it up. Not for assassins—no one was suicidal enough to target her—but because of paparazzi.
Just two days ago, at another event, a man had suddenly rolled under her car as she stepped out. She'd thought it was an assassination attempt—until security dragged him out and he confessed he was a tabloid photographer trying to get "upskirt" shots.
That day, she had been so furious her face had gone white. Killing him wasn't an option, unfortunately, so she settled for breaking a few bones and a warning he'd never forget.
Those trash magazines had only a handful of employees, but they were too small to intimidate and too crazy to fear death. Against that kind of madness, even Malcolm's assassins or the Court's Talons were useless.
So, yes—Thea checked the car every time now.
The city lights blurred past as she drove aimlessly through Star City, realizing she had nowhere in particular to go.
Felicity was out of town—visiting her mother for the Festival of Light.
Guess it's time to check on my future sister-in-law, she thought.
When Laurel Lance opened the door and saw Thea, she broke into a surprised but genuine smile.
The two had known each other since childhood—not exactly "best friends," but close enough that catching up felt easy. They grabbed dinner at a small bistro nearby.
Over soup and salad, Thea vented about the campaign circus—at least, the parts she could talk about. (No mention of Gotham, magic daggers, or multi-dimensional bloodlines.)
Then the conversation shifted to Laurel. And Thea quickly realized that her friend wasn't doing so great either.
Star City's crime rate had plummeted recently, thanks largely to Moira's massive job-creation program. When people had stable work, they didn't have time to riot. The few rabble-rousers who used to stir up trouble had been "transferred" elsewhere—quietly and permanently.
With no crimes and no unrest, Laurel's law office for the people had gone quiet too—too quiet.
Her firm, once eight partners strong, had already lost three to resignations. The rest were quietly looking for other opportunities. Legal fees had dried up; rent and utilities hadn't. The financial pressure was eating through Laurel's modest savings fast.
And, to top it off, Tommy—her wealthy, usually reliable boyfriend—had been increasingly absent lately. So absent that Laurel had begun to wonder if he was seeing someone else.
Thea sipped her coffee and thought grimly, Star City may be safer, but happiness sure isn't.