The Gale of Becoming

The penthouse, once a sanctuary, now felt like a war room on the edge of collapse. The timer on the holoscreen ticked down—00:25:29—casting a cold, red glow over the faces of Star City's defenders.

Curtis's fingers danced across the tablet, sweat beading at his brow. "T-Spheres are mapping device locations. I'm patching every reading to the League and cross-referencing for any anomaly that could be our wild energy signature. Mia's vitals are steady, but… I don't know how long she can hold out."

Oliver squeezed his shoulder. "You're doing everything you can, Curtis. Just keep her alive. That's all that matters."

Roy checked his gear, jaw set. "Evac routes are up. I'll take the south sector, Ollie. We can move more people if we split up. Dinah, you—" He stopped, realizing she was already strapping on her gauntlets, eyes locked on Wild Card.

Dinah's voice was low, fierce. "I'm with Wild Card. Prometheus is mine too."

Wild Card stood by the panoramic window, city lights reflected in his mask. "We don't have time for speeches. Canary, with me. Arsenal, Arrow—clear the streets. Curtis, keep the line open. If Mia's condition changes, I want to know before her heart skips a beat."

The team moved with grim efficiency. Oliver and Roy slipped into the night, their shadows merging with the city's chaos. Curtis remained, a sentinel at Mia's side, the soft beeping of monitors and the timer's relentless pulse his only companions.

Dinah paused at the door, glancing back at Mia. "Hold on, kid. We're not letting you go out like this."

Wild Card's voice was a whisper, meant only for Dinah. "He'll be waiting for us. Don't hesitate."

She nodded, steel in her eyes. "I won't."

As Dinah and Wild Card vanished into the night, the penthouse was left in tense silence, broken only by the city's distant sirens and the soft, ragged breaths of the girl who held the fate of millions in her veins.

***

Parallel Missions

The air in Star City hung heavy with the sharp tang of ozone and the metallic scent of fresh fear, a choking shroud over the hoarse cries of a city unraveling. Distant sirens wailed like dying animals. On the ground, and from the rooftops of crumbling high-rises, Green Arrow and Arsenal split up, each taking responsibility for a different sector—miles apart, each area a maze of panicked civilians, blocked roads, and the looming threat of Prometheus's devices.

The timer on Oliver's comm flickered: 00:23:45

***

Green Arrow: North End

Oliver moved through the north sector, his voice cutting through the chaos as he guided families from crumbling apartment towers and trembling subway platforms. The air was thick with dust and the acrid smell of smoke, mingling with the distant rumble of collapsing buildings. He commandeered city buses, directing drivers to safe zones mapped by Curtis's T-Spheres, their headlights piercing the smoky haze.

Every street was a battlefield: debris littered the roads, shattered glass glittered like deadly confetti, and fires flickered in abandoned cars. Oliver paused to comfort a terrified child, her wide eyes reflecting the chaos around them.

"You're safe. I'll get you out," he promised, his voice steady despite the tremor in his own heart.

The ground shook intermittently, a harsh reminder of the blasts echoing through the city's core. Buildings groaned under unseen pressure, windows shattered in cascading waves, and the distant wail of sirens was punctuated by the sharp crack of falling debris. Each face Oliver passed was etched with fear and desperation, a silent plea for hope amid the devastation.

His arrows flew with precision, clearing rubble and creating makeshift barricades to slow the spread of panic. His comms crackled with Curtis's updates, a lifeline in the storm. Every life saved was a heavy coin paid against the relentless ticking clock 00:22:15.

***

Arsenal: South Docks

Meanwhile, Roy Harper raced through the industrial district, his red armor streaked with dust and sweat, the acrid scent of burning oil and twisted metal filling the air. The ground beneath him trembled with each distant explosion, sending shockwaves that rattled the skeletal remains of warehouses and factories.

He coordinated with first responders, his voice steady over the comms:

"Move north, stick together, don't stop for anything!"

Arsenal's arrows detonated harmlessly overhead, their sharp whistles cutting through the cacophony of destruction, drawing attention away from a bottlenecked crowd and buying precious seconds for escape.

He led a group through a collapsed warehouse, the air thick with dust and the sharp tang of smoke. The distant roar of a massive blast sent a shudder through the ground, rattling bones and hearts alike. As Roy guided the last group of civilians onto a waiting ferry at the south docks, the timer in his HUD flashe . He paused, watching them go, the heavy thrum of the city's collapsing infrastructure vibrating through the soles of his boots—a grim reminder of the cost of their desperate flight.

***

The Final Stand: West Bridge

Suddenly, Roy's comms crackled open. "They're deploying additional perimeter shields around the core zones," Roy reported to Oliver, his voice flat, devoid of its usual brashness. "The League's doing what they can for crowd control, but it's not enough. Not with this ticking down." He turned, his eyes locking onto the chaos, a familiar frustration simmering beneath the surface. "You saw what he did to her, Ollie. On live feed. He mutilated her. We should've ended this days ago. We had him on the ropes."

Oliver, still engaged in the north sector, flinched. "We do this by the book, Roy," Oliver said, his voice hollow, strained. "Or we lose more than Mia. We lose everything. We lose our souls."

Roy scoffed, a short, bitter sound. He shook his head, jaw tight. "We already lost her, Ollie. He took her. And if you can't do what needs to be done, if you keep holding back… I will." He finished, his posture rigid with a dangerous resolve.

Oliver couldn't respond. The accusation hung heavy in the smoke-filled air. He looked away, fists clenched, his mind replaying Mia's torture, his own helplessness. He had held back, and Mia had paid the price. Was Roy right? A sickening premonition coiled in his gut, cold and sharp. Every instinct screamed to follow Roy, but the city... the city needed him elsewhere.

"I'm going to the primary displacement zone," Roy announced, already moving towards the edge of his current position. "They're bottlenecking at the west bridge. I can clear a path. Fast." His words were clipped, his movements precise, almost too deliberate.

The timer on Oliver's comm showed

:00:20:00

Oliver spun around, alarm flaring in his eyes. "Roy, that's a direct hit zone if the network triggers! And the defenses are going to be tighter than anywhere else. It's too dangerous!"

"Dangerous?" Roy laughed, a mirthless sound. "Ollie, we're in dangerous. This whole city is dangerous. Besides, someone needs to make sure the evac teams don't get trapped. And if Prometheus decides to make a show, someone needs to be there to run interference." He looked at Oliver, a strange, almost resigned smile on his face. "You always said the city comes first. Guess you finally rubbed off on me."

A cold dread seeped into Oliver's bones. Roy's recklessness had been a familiar trait, a mirror of his own early days, but there was something different in his voice now—a chilling finality. "Don't do this, Roy. We'll find another way. We always do."

"There's no time for 'another way'," Roy said, his voice softening, but his resolve hardening. He gestured vaguely towards the distant skyline, then back to the struggling civilians. "You know it. This is the only chance to buy them those extra minutes. Promise me you'll finish this. For all of us. For Mia."

"Roy—" Oliver started, his voice breaking, a plea forming on his lips.

He met Oliver's desperate gaze for one last, searing moment, then turned and was gone, a red blur leaping into the smoky air, speeding towards the distant west bridge.

"ROY!" Oliver roared, but there was nothing to grab onto, only the empty space where his partner had been. He stood frozen, listening to the pounding of his own heart, which echoed the frantic ticking of the timer on his comm. A sickening premonition coiled in his gut.

Roy moved through the crumbling streets of Star City like a phantom, the red of his Arsenal suit a stark contrast against the dust and debris. The west bridge, a bottleneck of desperate humanity, was already a deathtrap. Panicked citizens were stampeding, trampling each other, while a series of newly erected energy shields—Prometheus's latest countermeasure—began to flicker into existence, threatening to seal off the escape route entirely.

"This is Arsenal. I'm at the west bridge," Roy crackled into his comms, his voice strained as he notched an arrow. "Shields are activating. I'm going to try to destabilize the power relays. Keep the flow moving, Flash."

"Arsenal, negative! That's a direct connection to the main grid!" The Flash's voice was urgent. "It could backfire, trigger the displacement devices!"

"No time for 'could'," Roy muttered, ignoring the warning. He fired, a specialized EMP arrow striking a power conduit. Sparks flew, the shield wavered, and a small opening appeared. "Go! Move! Now!" he screamed at the terrified civilians, waving them through.

But as he continued to fire, targeting secondary relays to widen the gap, a chilling, familiar voice echoed in his ear, a silken thread of malice overriding his comms, dripping with perverse pleasure.

"Clever, Arsenal. But predictable. Did you truly think I wouldn't account for your mentor's reckless protégés?" Prometheus.

Suddenly, the ground beneath Roy trembled. The EMP arrows, instead of disrupting, had been rerouted. A new, larger energy field, crackling with raw, unstable dimensional energy, began to form directly around Roy, emanating from the damaged relays he had just hit. It wasn't a shield to block the citizens; it was a containment field, drawing power from the very devices it was supposed to stop.

"I designed this as a trap," Prometheus continued, his voice resonating with perverse triumph. "For the hero who would sacrifice himself. A perfect, isolated mini-displacement. You've just activated your own personal oblivion, Arsenal."

Roy looked down, horrified, as the ground around him began to warp, the air shimmering with an unearthly blue light. A cold dread, stark and absolute, seized him. This wasn't just a trap; it was his end. Every instinct screamed to run, to survive, but a desperate, defiant resolve ignited in his gut. This was his choice. He wouldn't back down.

The timer in his HUD blazed 00:17:45

"Oliver! Curtis! I'm trapped!" Roy yelled into his comms, his voice filled with a sudden, dawning horror. "Prometheus re-routed the EMP! It's pulling from the main network! If I don't disconnect this now, it's going to overload and take out the whole sector! The entire west side is going into the void!"

Oliver's voice, raw with desperation, ripped through the comms. "ROY! NO! DON'T TOUCH IT! WE'LL FIND A WAY!"

"There's no time, Ollie!" Roy screamed, his eyes darting to the rapidly expanding distortion around him. He saw the horrified faces of the last few civilians scrambling through the opening he'd made, their cries swallowed by the rising hum of the dimensional tear. He saw his city. He saw Oliver, in his mind's eye, the man who had pulled him from the abyss.

He reached out, his hand shaking, towards the violently vibrating central console of the energy field, the nexus of the trap. He knew what he had to do. The only way to stop the localized displacement from cascading and triggering the city-wide network was to cut off its energy source directly at the nexus—a manual overload that would obliterate him, but contain the immediate threat.

Roy's comm crackled with static as the chaos surged around him. The blue light of the containment field flickered, painting his face in ghostly hues. He could hear Oliver's voice—hoarse, desperate—cutting through the noise.

"Roy, don't do this. We'll find another way. We always do. Please—wait for me."

For a moment, Roy closed his eyes. He remembered the first time Oliver had called him partner, the laughter, the fights, the quiet moments on rooftops when the city was just theirs. All of it, now, felt impossibly far away.

"Ollie…" Roy's voice trembled, but he forced himself to steady it. "You always believed there was another way. That's what made you a hero. But sometimes… sometimes someone has to be the one who doesn't come back

A grim smile, tinged with a lifetime of regret and fierce loyalty, spread across his bruised face. His gaze was fixed on the distant skyline, where he knew Oliver was.

His voice, raw with emotion yet clear, carried over the comms, a final testament:

"Curtis, you brilliant bastard, keep inventing. Keep finding hope where there is none. Dinah, fight like hell, Canary. Hit 'em hard, for all of us. Mia, kiddo… live for us. Live for a better Star City. Be stronger than we ever were."

His breath hitched, then steadied as he addressed his final challenge.

"Wild Card... this isn't easy. But I forgive you. For everything. And thank you. Thank you for saving Mia. Thank you for giving us a chance to save this city."

Then, his voice dropped, laced with profound love and conviction, meant only for his mentor.

Oliver's reply was a raw whisper. "You don't have to do this. Not for me. Not for anyone."

Roy shook his head, a tear tracing a path through the grime on his cheek. "You saved me, Ollie. Again and again. You gave me a family when I had nothing. You taught me how to fight, how to stand up, how to hope. I never said thank you—not really. So… thank you."

"Roy, please—" Oliver's voice broke, pain and love tangled in every syllable.

"I'm scared," Roy admitted, voice cracking. "God, I'm so scared. But I'd rather be scared for the right reasons than live with regret. Tell Lian… tell her her dad was a hero. Tell Dinah she's the bravest person I've ever known. And you—" He swallowed, fighting for composure. "You're my brother, Ollie. Always. Even when I screwed up. Especially then."

The blue light intensified, the hum of the device rising.

Roy's voice was soft now, almost a prayer. "Don't let this break you. Don't let him win. Be the man who saves the city, not the one who loses himself to vengeance. That's what Mia needs. That's what I need. Promise me."

Oliver's answer was a strangled sob. "I promise, Roy. I promise."

A faint, broken smile touched Roy's lips. "That's good enough for me."

He looked up, one last time, at the city he loved, at the sky above, and then—at the man who had always been his hero.

"Goodbye, Ollie. Thank you… for everything."

The comm went silent. The world held its breath. He triggered the device's fail-safe—a direct, physical short-circuit. The overloaded dimensional emitter screamed. Blue light flared, blinding. And then, the light took him.

"You're the best man I know, Ollie. My brother. Don't forget that. And don't let him win. Don't let him break you."

"ROY!" Oliver roared.

A concussive blast ripped through the west bridge, tearing apart the section Roy stood on. A localized, violent vortex of shimmering, blue energy erupted, then imploded inwards, sealing itself off with a deafening CRACK that vibrated through the very bedrock of the city. The energy shields around the bridge flickered, then stabilized, the danger contained. Roy Harper was gone.

***

The City Shattered 00:15:30

The moment Roy triggered the fail-safe, a blinding blue-white light erupted at the west bridge—then, for a heartbeat, the world stood still.

Then came the blast.

A shockwave roared outward, flattening everything at ground zero. The bridge and its packed crowds vanished in a flash—steel, concrete, and hundreds of lives erased in an instant. The explosion's force tore through entire city blocks, pulverizing buildings, flipping vehicles, and sending a wall of debris and glass surging outward in all directions.

Across Star City, the ground heaved as if struck by an earthquake. Windows shattered miles away; doors were ripped from their hinges. In the financial district, glass rained from skyscrapers, cutting through the panicked crowds below. In the north end, Oliver was thrown from his feet as the shockwave hit, his ears ringing, the air filled with dust and the screams of the wounded. Fires broke out in the rubble, alarms blared, and the sky darkened with smoke.

At the south docks, the ferry lurched violently, nearly capsizing as the water convulsed. Warehouses collapsed, shipping containers tumbled, and people clung to each other, stunned by the force that had just torn a chunk out of their city. The blast's echo rolled across the bay, a thunderclap of loss and devastation.

In every neighborhood, people staggered from their homes, faces streaked with blood or dust, staring in disbelief at the rising column of blue fire and black smoke where the bridge—and a swath of the city—had been. Hospitals were instantly overwhelmed, communications overloaded, and emergency responders paralyzed by the scale of destruction.

The city's heart had been ripped out.

A crater smoldered where the west bridge once stood, and the pulse of the timer continued—now counting down over a city forever changed.

The Silence

The silence that followed on the comms was deafening—more terrifying than any explosion.

Miles away, on a precarious rooftop, Oliver stood frozen, staring at the holographic feed from the west bridge as it flickered and went black. In that instant, the world seemed to narrow to a single, echoing memory—Roy's voice, raw and unwavering:

You're the best man I know, Ollie. Don't let him win.

Back in the penthouse, Curtis, still hunched over his tablet, looked up, his face ashen, tears streaming down his cheeks. He could only shake his head, utterly broken.

Oliver's knees buckled. He dropped to the gravel, the city's chaos fading into a dull, distant roar. His bow slipped from his numb fingers. He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. His chest ached with a grief so sharp it felt like it would tear him in two.

He squeezed his eyes shut, but all he saw was Roy's face—smiling, defiant, alive—and then gone. The memory of Mia's screams twisted inside him, Prometheus's laughter a poison in his veins. The silence pressed in, suffocating, as if the whole city was holding its breath, waiting for him to break.

He wanted to scream. To rage. To beg for just one more chance, one more second to save Roy, to save them all. But there was nothing left. Only the hollow ache of loss, and the crushing certainty that he had failed.

His hands shook so violently he could barely clench them into fists. He drove his nails into his palms until he felt blood, needing the pain, needing something real to anchor him.

No more mercy. No more second chances. No more "another way." Prometheus had taken too much—Mia, Roy, the hope that had kept him fighting. He had proven his point.

Now Oliver Queen would prove his.

00:15:00.

Each second, a heartbeat for a city on the edge.

Each second, a drumbeat for vengeance yet to come.

End of Chapter 23