Chapter 13: Tommy Merlyn's Introduction
Ben had no business at a Queen Consolidated charity gala, but Marcus's boxing connections had gotten him an invitation to demonstrate "Glades community outreach"—the kind of feel-good presentation that made wealthy donors feel better about writing checks instead of actually visiting the neighborhoods they claimed to care about. It was perfect cover for Malcolm reconnaissance, even if it meant trading his comfortable gym clothes for a borrowed suit that felt like a straitjacket.
The hotel ballroom sparkled with the kind of artificial elegance that money could buy but never quite made genuine. Crystal chandeliers cast prismatic light across marble floors where Starling City's elite mingled with the practiced ease of people who'd learned to perform charity the way others performed breathing. The air smelled of expensive perfume, premium liquor, and the particular emptiness that came from conversations designed to impress rather than communicate.
Ben's Prescience triggered erratically in the crowd—too many potential social threats, too much competitive energy, creating background static that made his skull ache. Not physical danger, but the psychological violence of people who'd weaponized politeness and turned networking into blood sport.
"I don't belong here. These people can smell authenticity from a mile away, and I'm about as authentic as a three-dollar bill. But I need to observe Malcolm, get a read on his security, his associates, his schedule. And I need to do it without looking like I'm casing the place for robbery."
He accepted a glass of champagne from a passing waiter and tried to blend into the crowd while scanning for his target. Malcolm Merlyn would be here—every major charity event in the city featured the same rotating cast of philanthropists who treated public generosity like a competitive sport.
Ben found him near the auction display, surrounded by a small crowd of admirers hanging on his every word. Even across the room, Malcolm's presence hit Ben's enhanced senses like a physical blow. His Prescience exploded into chaotic warning signals—overlapping visions of violence and death that made no immediate sense but carried the unmistakable signature of future catastrophe.
Malcolm Merlyn talking about urban renewal while planning to level half the city. Malcolm in a dark mask, arrows flying with perfect precision. Malcolm standing over bodies with the cold satisfaction of someone who'd decided that justice required mass murder.
The sensory overload drove Ben back a step, champagne sloshing in his glass as he fought to keep his expression neutral. Malcolm looked like exactly what he was supposed to be—a successful businessman discussing charitable initiatives with people who shared his supposed concern for Starling City's future. But Ben's powers were screaming warnings that had nothing to do with the man's public persona and everything to do with the Dark Archer he would become.
"You look like you're either going to throw up or murder someone."
Ben spun toward the voice, his Prescience briefly clearing as it focused on a new presence. The man approaching was maybe his age, with the kind of casual confidence that came from growing up wealthy and the slightly manic energy of someone who'd learned to use humor as armor against expectations he couldn't meet.
"Sorry," Ben managed, setting down his champagne before his shaking hands betrayed him. "Not really my crowd."
"Tommy Merlyn," the stranger said, offering his hand and a smile that seemed genuinely amused rather than performatively polite. "And let me guess—you're here because someone convinced you it would be 'good for networking' or 'important for community relations,' and now you're realizing you'd rather be literally anywhere else."
"Ben Hale. And that's disturbingly accurate."
"I have extensive experience being a hostage at these things." Tommy gestured around the ballroom with theatrical resignation. "The key is finding fellow prisoners to commiserate with. Makes the time pass faster and gives you someone to make sarcastic comments to when the speeches get particularly nauseating."
Despite the headache still pounding behind his eyes, Ben found himself relaxing slightly. Tommy had the rare gift of making conversation feel effortless rather than performed, like he was actually interested in talking instead of just waiting for his turn to speak.
"What's your excuse for being here?" Ben asked.
"Genetic misfortune. My father believes charity galas build character and business connections. I believe they're elaborate forms of social torture disguised as philanthropy." Tommy flagged down a waiter and grabbed two glasses of something that looked stronger than champagne. "But the alcohol is usually decent, and occasionally you meet interesting people who are as miserable as you are."
"Misery loves company."
"Exactly. Plus, someone has to represent the Merlyn family's commitment to looking like we care about poor people while doing absolutely nothing meaningful to help them."
The casual cynicism should have been off-putting, but Ben heard something underneath it—the particular bitterness that came from being forced to participate in hypocrisy while being aware enough to recognize it for what it was.
"That's a pretty dark view of charity work."
"Have you seen the neighborhoods these events are supposed to help? Because I have. Drove through the Glades last month just to see what all the fund-raising was allegedly addressing." Tommy's expression shifted, humor giving way to something more genuine. "Turns out writing checks and giving speeches doesn't actually fix poverty, addiction, or the fact that half the buildings down there are one bad winter away from collapse."
He's been to the Glades. He's seen the reality behind the rhetoric.
"What do you do?" Tommy continued. "And please tell me it's something more substantial than 'consulting' or 'portfolio management.'"
"I teach self-defense at a gym in the Glades."
Tommy's eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"How did you end up doing that?"
Ben considered his options and settled on a version of truth that wouldn't require elaborate backstory. "Got tired of watching people get hurt because they didn't know how to protect themselves. Figured teaching basic defensive techniques was better than just feeling bad about it."
"And tonight you're here because...?"
"Marcus—the guy who owns the gym—thought it would be good for the community if I came and talked about what we do. Show the donors that their money actually reaches the people who need it."
"Does it? Reach the people who need it, I mean."
Ben thought about his morning classes, the single mothers learning to break free from grabs, the teenagers like Sin who were absorbing survival techniques with desperate intensity.
"Some of it. Not enough, but some."
Tommy studied him with new attention, and Ben realized he'd just passed some kind of test. The playboy facade had shifted, revealing glimpses of someone who thought about things beyond party schedules and trust fund management.
"What's it like? Teaching people to fight, I mean."
"I don't teach people to fight. I teach them to survive."
"What's the difference?"
"Fighting is about winning. Survival is about getting home safe." Ben gestured around the ballroom where people were bidding thousands of dollars on vacation packages and art pieces while pretending to care about urban poverty. "Most people think violence is what they see in movies—clean, dramatic, with clear heroes and villains. Reality is messier. In the Glades, knowing how to avoid trouble is more important than knowing how to cause it."
Tommy nodded slowly. "And the people you teach—do they get it? The difference?"
"Most of them understand better than I do. They've lived with the reality of violence as a daily possibility. I just help them prepare for it."
For the first time since arriving at the gala, Ben was having a conversation that felt genuine rather than performative. Tommy Merlyn was asking real questions about neighborhoods his father's company systematically ignored, showing the kind of engagement that went beyond charitable tax writeoffs.
"This is dangerous. I'm supposed to be observing Malcolm, not bonding with his son. But Tommy's not his father—not yet, anyway. In the show, he was the one person who might have been able to reach Malcolm if things had gone differently. Maybe building a connection here could matter later."
"Can I ask you something?" Tommy said.
"Sure."
"Do you think it's possible for someone to be a good person even if they come from bad people?"
The question hit like a physical blow. Ben looked across the room where Malcolm was still holding court, radiating the charm and authority that had made him one of Starling City's most respected businessmen while secretly planning mass murder.
"I think people are responsible for their own choices," Ben said carefully. "What your family does, what they've done in the past—that's not your burden unless you choose to make it your burden."
"But what if you benefit from the bad things? What if your whole life is built on money that came from hurting people?"
He knows. Maybe not the specifics, but he knows something's wrong with his family's empire.
"Then you have a choice. You can perpetuate the damage, or you can try to fix it. But you can't fix it by pretending it doesn't exist."
Tommy was quiet for a moment, staring into his drink like it might contain answers to questions he wasn't sure he wanted to ask.
POV: Tommy
Tommy watched Ben leave the gala an hour later, heading back to neighborhoods where Tommy's family name appeared on eviction notices and foreclosure documents. The conversation replayed in his mind with uncomfortable intensity—the first honest discussion he'd had at one of these events in years.
Ben Hale didn't want anything from him. Hadn't asked for donations, hadn't tried to impress him with connections or credentials, hadn't treated him like a Merlyn heir with a trust fund and influence. He'd looked at Tommy like a person, talked to him like his opinions mattered independent of his bank balance.
"Interesting conversation?" Malcolm appeared at Tommy's elbow with the silent approach that had always made Tommy slightly nervous. His father could move through crowds like smoke when he chose to, arriving in conversations without anyone noticing his approach.
"Just talking to someone who actually does the work our donations are supposed to support."
"Ben Hale," Malcolm said, and something in his tone made Tommy look up sharply.
"You know him?"
"I make it my business to know who attends events like this. Particularly when they represent organizations in the Glades." Malcolm's smile was perfectly pleasant, but Tommy caught a flicker of something else in his eyes—calculation, maybe, or recognition. "He teaches self-defense, I believe."
"Yeah. Seems like he's actually making a difference down there."
"I'm sure he is."
Malcolm excused himself a moment later, moving back into the crowd with the fluid grace that had always reminded Tommy more of a predator than a philanthropist. But not before Tommy caught him making a note on his phone—something about the gym teacher who'd just given Tommy the first genuine conversation he'd had in months.
"Why does Dad care about Ben? He's just a guy trying to help people. Unless... unless there's something about him that I'm missing. Something that would make Dad see him as important enough to track."
Tommy pulled out his own phone and saved Ben's number with a small smile. Maybe it was time to learn more about the neighborhoods his family's company operated in. Maybe it was time to see what the Merlyn name looked like from the perspective of people who had to live with its consequences.
And maybe it was time to figure out why his father had that particular look in his eyes when Ben Hale's name came up in conversation.
Ben made it home with a splitting headache that had nothing to do with the champagne and everything to do with prolonged proximity to Malcolm Merlyn. His powers had been screaming warnings the entire evening, showing him fragments of violence and death that wouldn't coalesce into actionable intelligence.
"Malcolm is dangerous in ways I can barely comprehend. My Prescience can sense the potential for massive violence radiating from him, but it can't show me specifics because the timeline is still too far out. All I know is that being near him feels like standing next to a nuclear bomb with an unknown countdown timer."
But the evening hadn't been entirely wasted. Tommy Merlyn was exactly what he'd appeared to be in the show—a fundamentally decent person struggling with the weight of his family legacy. Building a relationship there might provide insight into Malcolm's plans, or at minimum give Ben an ally who understood the Merlyn family's inner workings.
Ben updated his coded journal with observations about Malcolm's security detail, his schedule patterns, the people who seemed to have genuine influence over him. Nothing immediately actionable, but intelligence that might matter when the Undertaking moved from planning to execution.
"Six months. Maybe less. Malcolm's timeline is accelerating, and I'm still playing catch-up. I need more information, more connections, more ways to intervene when the time comes. And I need to figure out how to do it without my powers giving me away to people who notice patterns."
Outside his window, the Glades hummed with late-night activity—people working multiple jobs to pay rent, kids like Sin navigating dangers that would give most adults nightmares, families trying to build lives in a neighborhood that the rest of the city had written off as expendable.
In a few months, Malcolm would try to erase all of it with carefully placed explosives and a geological disaster that would be blamed on natural causes. Ben's job was to make sure that didn't happen.
Even if it meant getting close to people whose deaths were written into the very timeline he was trying to change.
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