Feeling the faint thread of kinship between them, Thea left a subtle suggestion buried deep in Tommy's mind — one that would make him wake up later, forget everything about the base, and think nothing unusual had happened.
She was careful not to overload his neural pathways; her magic flowed like a whisper, precise and delicate. When she confirmed there was no backlash, she released her clone, merging its memory back into herself.
At that moment, her real body was sprinting full speed with Laurel in tow. And say what you would about Laurel Lance — the woman had potential. She was running in heels, with two impressive D-cups threatening to defy gravity, yet somehow managed to keep up.
"Alright, alright, let's rest for a bit," Thea finally said, slowing down. Ever since eating that green fruit from the Swamp Thing, her lungs had been nearly indestructible — she could run all day and not even sweat.
Laurel, however, was gasping for breath. She didn't even sit down right away, glancing back over her shoulder first to make sure they weren't being followed.
"Thea… your stamina is insane."
"Family genetics," Thea said smoothly. "You've seen Oliver, right? He's the same. Strong genes."
She gave Laurel a meaningful look. Laurel blinked, not entirely catching the innuendo, and nodded awkwardly.
They moved on to lighter conversation — the city's crime rate, local news, small talk.
Then Thea's consciousness fully reintegrated with her returning clone, flooding her mind with the details of last night's events.
She leaned closer. "Do you know who fired that arrow?" she asked, lowering her voice like it was a state secret.
Laurel blinked at her. "How would I know? Everything happened so fast."
"I remember being terrified," Laurel said thoughtfully, arms folded under her chest as she tilted her head. "Then suddenly that thug went down, the lights went out, and you dragged me out of there."
Classic heroine behavior — the Lois Lane Syndrome: nearly gets herself killed, rescued by a mysterious masked stranger, and immediately develops an obsession with uncovering their identity. Thea could already see the pattern forming. Lois Lane, Iris West… Laurel Lance would fit right in.
She glanced at Laurel's "strategically enhanced" figure and smirked. You can keep guessing, sweetheart. The truth's right here, and I'm not telling.
The next day, after another long morning of campaign running and photo ops for her mother, Thea made an excuse to slip away. She checked in briefly with Moira's staff, then headed to the Merlyn Group headquarters by late afternoon.
"Hey, Thea," Tommy greeted her weakly from outside the CEO's office.
Her psychic scan brushed across him — his recovery was excellent. The mental seed she'd left in him had already dissolved, meaning it had either done its job or been absorbed into his psyche. Either way, no harm done.
"You look awful," she said, feigning concern.
Tommy rubbed his neck, looking embarrassed. "Didn't sleep well."
Thea leaned against his desk, completely ignoring office etiquette. "You and Laurel… what's going on there? I talked to her yesterday, you know."
(Talked being a generous word — it had mostly been a drunken, very explicit girl's-night-out confession about Tommy's performance.)
He had no idea Thea knew his romantic history in such mortifying detail. Mentioning Laurel instantly soured his mood. His father's words echoed in his mind:
"If you want to be a hero, fine. But be ready to lose the people you care about. Because the moment you drag them into your crusade, you'll regret it for the rest of your life."
It wasn't so different from Oliver's philosophy — both men had that same self-sacrificing streak. They'd even fallen for the same kind of woman: stubborn, righteous, impossible to deter.
Tommy looked at his sister, momentarily dazed. She was beautiful — radiant, even. If Oliver's sister can change this much in just a few years… maybe I should stay away for everyone's sake.
"I've got something to take care of," he said abruptly, grabbing a file from his desk and hurrying out before she could press further.
Thea blinked, caught off guard. Weird. He's acting so distant. Did the hypnosis backfire?
Her first instinct was to suspect her magic. After all, if something went wrong with a psychic suggestion, the results could be unpredictable. But after a moment's thought, she shrugged it off. Probably not worth worrying about.
Anyway, she was here for someone else.
Malcolm Merlyn's office smelled faintly of sandalwood. The man himself sat serenely behind his desk, pouring tea like a monk with a vendetta.
"Thea," he said pleasantly, setting out another cup. "A rare visit. What brings you here?"
Thea hesitated for a moment, then reached into her collar and pulled out the blue pendant hanging around her neck.
"This," she said simply. "You gave it to me."
Malcolm's eyebrows rose. "And it suits you," he said with an easy smile, assuming she was about to thank him.
Of course it suited her — she'd long since discovered the thing was a genuine magical artifact. Returning it to him would be like tossing a fortune into the ocean.
"I wanted to ask about its origin," she continued carefully. "Where did you get it? Or who had it before you?"
That caught him off guard. His pupils contracted slightly before he covered it up with a genial laugh. "Oh? Something wrong with it? Come, drink. Tell me what's on your mind."
Thea took the cup but didn't drink. She'd rehearsed this conversation in her head. After Gotham, after Solomon Grundy, after everything, she knew Malcolm must have heard something. There had been thousands of witnesses to that battle; his network couldn't possibly have missed it.
Still, she trusted him — or at least, trusted the version of him that loved his children. For all his ruthlessness, Malcolm Merlyn wasn't cruel by nature. In another timeline, he had even died smiling to save Thea. Whatever else he was, he wasn't without humanity.
So she decided to show him a little of what she could do.
With a subtle roll of her shoulder, her shadow rippled—and a second Thea stepped cleanly out of it.
Malcolm's serene composure shattered. The cup clattered in his hands, tea splashing across the desk as his jaw dropped.
He sputtered mid-sip, nearly choking.
"Wha—what the hell?!"
The two Theas spoke in perfect unison, their tone calm and measured.
"This is what I discovered in Gotham."
"And this is why I came to you."
Malcolm stared, wide-eyed, scanning back and forth between them. He even blinked rapidly, half expecting the illusion to fade.
But it didn't. There were two of her — identical in voice, aura, and expression.
No smoke. No mirrors. No trick.
For the first time in years, Malcolm Merlyn — master manipulator, League assassin, and seasoned killer — was completely, utterly stunned.