Seeing Thea standing before him with a blank expression, even Malcolm—who'd handled countless tricky situations—had no idea what to say to ease the unbearable awkwardness. The usually smooth-tongued man couldn't utter a single word, silently cursing English for its pitifully limited vocabulary.
He wanted to ask if Thea had come up because of something she'd heard—but one look at her vacant eyes told him everything. Even a fool would know she'd overheard what she shouldn't have. Regret surged through him. Why on earth had he rushed to the Queen household today to propose? If only he'd done his homework properly! With his resources, uncovering the truth beforehand would've been child's play. Now he was stuck in this unspeakably awkward mess.
Thea, meanwhile, finally felt her life was safe enough to make her exit. Keeping that dazed look on her face was starting to make her muscles stiff. She tried squeezing out a tear or two, but with zero acting experience, nothing came out. All she managed was a sharp sniff before turning on her heel and bolting.
"Thea—!" Moira's voice cracked behind her, raw with anguish. For the woman who had loved her with all her heart, Thea could only whisper an apology deep inside: I'm sorry. I'll find a way to make it up to you someday.
Out the door she went, straight into a luxurious bar—the perfect stage for Act Two of a runaway daughter: getting drunk.
She wasn't the least bit worried about her safety. A place this fancy had to be connected to Malcolm somehow. It was the shady little bars that were dangerous. Sure enough, her hunch was spot-on—the bar was run by one of Malcolm's loyal men. When the boss got a call from Malcolm himself telling him to "take good care of the girl," he nearly had a heart attack.
He barked orders left and right, summoning a few burly, scar-faced bodyguards to form a human wall around Thea—facing outward, of course, lest they scare her. He even told the DJ to switch to a softer, romantic track. The DJ was baffled but knew better than to argue. If customers didn't like it? Too bad—today the boss didn't care about business. He was already on the phone calling every friend and relative he could think of, dragging them over to "keep the atmosphere up," swaying wildly to gentle love songs like it was a rock concert.
"Boss, what should we serve that chick?" the bartender shouted, hurrying over.
"Show some respect! That's lady! Say it again!" the boss snarled, eyes bulging.
The bartender blinked. Did he forget his meds again? But seeing that the boss looked ready to bite, he quickly bowed his head. "Yes, boss. What should we serve the lady?"
That question actually stumped the man. Strong liquor? She'd be out cold after two glasses—easy to handle, sure, but if the big boss found out he'd let her drink like that, he might end up cemented under a bridge somewhere. A convenient short-term fix leading to a very permanent problem.
Something mild, then? That meant he'd have to babysit her all night, and with a face like hers—beautiful, though still a bit young and unpolished—she'd attract trouble for sure. America might not have much else, but it had no shortage of troublemakers. Hell, four million roughnecks went to war back in the day; you could call half of them thugs. And, looking at her features and fair hair, she even resembled Malcolm a little…
After thinking it through, he decided to play it safe. He'd keep watch himself tonight. His "friendly match" with his mistress could wait. He also told his men to arm up—if any idiot enemies showed up, they were to take care of it outside. The young lady inside was not to be disturbed under any circumstance.
One of his goons, seeing how anxious the boss was, whispered, "Uh… boss, who is she?"
The boss had no idea who exactly Thea was—Malcolm's tone alone had been enough to terrify him. But there was no need to explain. He muttered, "She's… my mother."
What the hell? the goon thought, his mind spinning. First he goes manic, now he's calling a teenage girl his mom. Time to polish my résumé and find a new job.
Unaware of the chaos she'd caused, Thea kept drinking, lost in thought. Her plan had worked perfectly—she was safe, for now. Time to think ahead: how to get stronger?
People always said, "The poor rely on mutation, the rich rely on technology." As the sole heir to both Queen Industries and Merlin Group, she definitely wasn't poor—but even modern tech wasn't close to Tony Stark's level. Malcolm had built his fortune through power and combat training, and even Batman's high-tech arsenal always came down to a good old-fashioned brawl. Only Atom seemed to rely on a suit, but his was still primitive—more like Ant-Man's than Iron Man's.
And even Tony Stark had trained his body—you saw him in Civil War, trading punches with the Winter Soldier barehanded. And the Winter Soldier's combat level was roughly equal to her dear brother Oliver Queen's. So in the end, it all circled back: she needed to train.
But not like Oliver. The thought of covering 20% of her body in scars, suffering second-degree burns, and enduring eighteen fractures was not her idea of beauty. According to Barry Allen's girlfriend, Oliver's arms were twice her size! No, that path was definitely not for her.
Maybe she could just focus on archery, skip the hand-to-hand stuff? She could ask Malcolm if there were ways to train without bulking up—assuming he'd even teach her.
Thinking of archery made her think of Oliver again. Her brother should be on Lian Yu right now, catching birds with Yao Fei. That guy was a character—his English was fine, yet he insisted on speaking Mandarin to Oliver, leaving the poor man utterly confused. His favorite line? "Survive. Survive—"
The thought made her chuckle, but she suddenly sensed someone watching. The laugh froze halfway into a strained, bitter smile.
That moment was caught perfectly by the bar owner—a onetime romantic himself. To an outsider, it looked like a young runaway girl drinking in silence, a touch of melancholy in her smile as she thought of all the things she couldn't say.Seeing Thea standing before him with a blank expression, even Malcolm—who'd handled countless tricky situations—had no idea what to say to ease the unbearable awkwardness. The usually smooth-tongued man couldn't utter a single word, silently cursing English for its pitifully limited vocabulary.
He wanted to ask if Thea had come up because of something she'd heard—but one look at her vacant eyes told him everything. Even a fool would know she'd overheard what she shouldn't have. Regret surged through him. Why on earth had he rushed to the Queen household today to propose? If only he'd done his homework properly! With his resources, uncovering the truth beforehand would've been child's play. Now he was stuck in this unspeakably awkward mess.
Thea, meanwhile, finally felt her life was safe enough to make her exit. Keeping that dazed look on her face was starting to make her muscles stiff. She tried squeezing out a tear or two, but with zero acting experience, nothing came out. All she managed was a sharp sniff before turning on her heel and bolting.
"Thea—!" Moira's voice cracked behind her, raw with anguish. For the woman who had loved her with all her heart, Thea could only whisper an apology deep inside: I'm sorry. I'll find a way to make it up to you someday.
Out the door she went, straight into a luxurious bar—the perfect stage for Act Two of a runaway daughter: getting drunk.
She wasn't the least bit worried about her safety. A place this fancy had to be connected to Malcolm somehow. It was the shady little bars that were dangerous. Sure enough, her hunch was spot-on—the bar was run by one of Malcolm's loyal men. When the boss got a call from Malcolm himself telling him to "take good care of the girl," he nearly had a heart attack.
He barked orders left and right, summoning a few burly, scar-faced bodyguards to form a human wall around Thea—facing outward, of course, lest they scare her. He even told the DJ to switch to a softer, romantic track. The DJ was baffled but knew better than to argue. If customers didn't like it? Too bad—today the boss didn't care about business. He was already on the phone calling every friend and relative he could think of, dragging them over to "keep the atmosphere up," swaying wildly to gentle love songs like it was a rock concert.
"Boss, what should we serve that chick?" the bartender shouted, hurrying over.
"Show some respect! That's lady! Say it again!" the boss snarled, eyes bulging.
The bartender blinked. Did he forget his meds again? But seeing that the boss looked ready to bite, he quickly bowed his head. "Yes, boss. What should we serve the lady?"
That question actually stumped the man. Strong liquor? She'd be out cold after two glasses—easy to handle, sure, but if the big boss found out he'd let her drink like that, he might end up cemented under a bridge somewhere. A convenient short-term fix leading to a very permanent problem.
Something mild, then? That meant he'd have to babysit her all night, and with a face like hers—beautiful, though still a bit young and unpolished—she'd attract trouble for sure. America might not have much else, but it had no shortage of troublemakers. Hell, four million roughnecks went to war back in the day; you could call half of them thugs. And, looking at her features and fair hair, she even resembled Malcolm a little…
After thinking it through, he decided to play it safe. He'd keep watch himself tonight. His "friendly match" with his mistress could wait. He also told his men to arm up—if any idiot enemies showed up, they were to take care of it outside. The young lady inside was not to be disturbed under any circumstance.
One of his goons, seeing how anxious the boss was, whispered, "Uh… boss, who is she?"
The boss had no idea who exactly Thea was—Malcolm's tone alone had been enough to terrify him. But there was no need to explain. He muttered, "She's… my mother."
What the hell? the goon thought, his mind spinning. First he goes manic, now he's calling a teenage girl his mom. Time to polish my résumé and find a new job.
Unaware of the chaos she'd caused, Thea kept drinking, lost in thought. Her plan had worked perfectly—she was safe, for now. Time to think ahead: how to get stronger?
People always said, "The poor rely on mutation, the rich rely on technology." As the sole heir to both Queen Industries and Merlin Group, she definitely wasn't poor—but even modern tech wasn't close to Tony Stark's level. Malcolm had built his fortune through power and combat training, and even Batman's high-tech arsenal always came down to a good old-fashioned brawl. Only Atom seemed to rely on a suit, but his was still primitive—more like Ant-Man's than Iron Man's.
And even Tony Stark had trained his body—you saw him in Civil War, trading punches with the Winter Soldier barehanded. And the Winter Soldier's combat level was roughly equal to her dear brother Oliver Queen's. So in the end, it all circled back: she needed to train.
But not like Oliver. The thought of covering 20% of her body in scars, suffering second-degree burns, and enduring eighteen fractures was not her idea of beauty. According to Barry Allen's girlfriend, Oliver's arms were twice her size! No, that path was definitely not for her.
Maybe she could just focus on archery, skip the hand-to-hand stuff? She could ask Malcolm if there were ways to train without bulking up—assuming he'd even teach her.
Thinking of archery made her think of Oliver again. Her brother should be on Lian Yu right now, catching birds with Yao Fei. That guy was a character—his English was fine, yet he insisted on speaking Mandarin to Oliver, leaving the poor man utterly confused. His favorite line? "Survive. Survive—"
The thought made her chuckle, but she suddenly sensed someone watching. The laugh froze halfway into a strained, bitter smile.
That moment was caught perfectly by the bar owner—a onetime romantic himself. To an outsider, it looked like a young runaway girl drinking in silence, a touch of melancholy in her smile as she thought of all the things she couldn't say.