When Thea arrived, she happened upon the scene just in time. She had no intention of rushing in with some melodramatic "long-lost siblings reunited" moment — not yet. Instead, she decided to test their mettle first.
Pulling her hood low and slipping on her visor, she activated a layer of black mist to blur her features. Europeans might have a bad case of face-blindness — to the point where Clark Kent fooled people with just a pair of glasses — but Thea wasn't taking chances. With her face veiled in smoky shadow, even if Malcolm stood right in front of her, he wouldn't recognize her now.
"Staring so hard you'll get a stye," she murmured teasingly, already picking up the heat signature of a man crouched in the trees through her infrared lens. Without alarming the pair by the lake, she circled quietly behind him, every step full of amused malice.
The man — broad-shouldered, battle-hardened — was none other than Slade Wilson, the future Deathstroke, now little more than a soldier of fortune. And the young man down by the lake with the woman was his "student" and sometimes friend — Oliver Queen.
At the sound of her voice, Slade spun on instinct, his blade flashing down in a lethal arc.
"Nice swing," Thea remarked lightly, sidestepping as the steel hissed through the air.
Slade's technique wasn't that of a martial artist — he was a mercenary, a killer who'd honed his craft through blood and battle. His strikes were clean and brutal, combining his raw strength, long reach, and lightning reflexes. That one slash had real weight and rhythm — even Thea had to admit, if she copied it, she couldn't reproduce the same fierce cadence.
Though he was adept with firearms, Slade was no stranger to melee combat. His specialty: Kali, the Filipino martial art of sticks and knives — and he'd mastered it to its peak.
Kali's blade work wasn't refined by classical standards, but Slade wielded it with such personal precision that every motion carried purpose.
Thea, watching him move, felt a thrill rise in her chest. She hadn't had a proper fight in weeks — not since Gotham. What was the fun in training alone or sparring with Batman, who could read every move before she made it? Here was a rare, worthy opponent.
Grinning, she held back her magic and her cybernetic arm, choosing instead to fight purely by hand.
As his knife came down again, she twisted aside, drawing her sword in one smooth motion. The blade sang as it sliced through the misty air, stabbing straight toward his throat.
Slade barely managed to block, yanking another blade from his back to parry. The impact sent sparks flying between steel and steel.
"Who the hell are you?" he demanded, eyes narrowing.
Thea didn't answer — her sword danced like a serpent, darting for his pressure points with merciless precision.
Frustrated by her silence, Slade roared and pressed forward, using his superior size and strength. Twin blades whirled in a relentless rhythm, each swing meant to kill.
Thea countered fluidly. She'd never trained in Kali specifically — and honestly, she'd always thought Filipino martial arts were a bit… overrated. "A country full of palm trees and sticks," she'd once joked. "How refined could their blade work possibly be?"
But watching Slade, she revised her opinion — slightly. He'd refined the art through experience, adapting it to his long reach and Western frame. Even so, after a few exchanges, she began to see the cracks.
He repeated his sequence twice without variation. Thea smiled — old soldier habits were so predictable.
When his right blade came slicing for her neck, she ducked smoothly. The strike was clever — but calibrated for shorter fighters. On a tall man like Slade, the angle came in too high.
Her sword flashed up in reply. With a sharp clang, her edge bit into his steel.
"Too slow."
A single twist of her wrist — and Slade's blade snapped clean in half.
The mercenary's eyes widened. He'd been caught completely off guard — his opponent had deliberately concealed her weapon's quality until now. Before he could react, her sword arced back, the tip glinting as it aimed straight for his eye—
"Stop!"
A woman's voice rang out — urgent, yet gentle even in its alarm.
Thea had already sensed her coming — and Oliver, who was stumbling after her. The two had obviously been… occupied by the lake until they heard the commotion.
So much for "covert combat," she thought dryly. Slade had been shouting like a maniac mid-fight — his "style," apparently — but it had also served to call reinforcements.
Now they were all here.
Seeing Slade on the verge of defeat, Shado — drenched from the water, dressed only in a clinging black undergarment — drew her bow in panic, firing a quick arrow to distract Thea.
Thea's lips curved. Against her speed, strength, and training, that arrow might as well have been moving in slow motion.
Rather than finish Slade, she pivoted, sword sweeping aside. Her left hand flashed up, fingers catching the arrow cleanly from midair.
"Who are you?" Shado demanded, eyes wary.
Thea looked her over, mildly amused. The young woman's hair was soaked, plastered to her shoulders; her clothes clung tightly, leaving little to imagination.
Finally, Thea thought with private satisfaction, someone smaller than me.
After months surrounded by Laurel, Catwoman, and other walking disasters of nature, it was a relief to see a girl who wasn't… overwhelming.
Her gaze slid briefly toward Oliver — who looked dazed, sluggish, and honestly disappointing.
She sighed inwardly. This? This was the future Green Arrow?
At this rate, even Tommy back home was ahead of him.