Chapter 8: STAR CITY 2046
The city burned.
Not actively—not anymore. But the scars of fire marked every building I could see through the Waverider's viewport. Star City 2046 looked like someone had taken the place I'd glimpsed through Shane Bennett's memories and run it through a war.
Because that's exactly what happened, I reminded myself. Grant Wilson's uprising. Oliver Queen's defeat. Thirty years of gang warfare and decay.
"Star City," Rip announced from the captain's chair. "2046. Approximately thirty years from your present. This timeline represents a potential future—one that becomes increasingly probable the longer we remain."
"Why are we here?" Sara's voice was flat. Professional. But her eyes kept drifting to the ruined skyline.
"The aberration we detected centers on this time period. Something is amplifying the instability—making this future more fixed than it should be." Rip pulled up holographic displays. "Our mission is to identify the source and neutralize it. If we fail, this becomes the only possible future for Star City."
And for everyone who lives there, I thought. Including people Sara knows. People she loves.
"I'll take point on reconnaissance." Sara was already moving toward the armory. "Mick, you're with me. Ray, cover from altitude. The rest of you—"
"I'll handle perimeter scouting," I said quickly. "Map the area, identify safe zones and threat concentrations."
Sara paused. Her eyes found mine—calculating, assessing. She still didn't trust me completely, but the 1986 mission had earned me something. Credibility, maybe. Or at least the benefit of the doubt.
"Fine. Stay in contact. If you see Grant Wilson's forces, do not engage."
"Understood."
We deployed an hour later. The Waverider touched down in what had once been a park—now an overgrown wasteland of dead trees and rusted playground equipment. Sara led her team east, toward the resistance territory. I went west, into the heart of Wilson's domain.
[SCANNING TEMPORAL STABILITY...]
[NODE 1: QUEEN CONSOLIDATED RUINS — STABILITY: MODERATE — VIABLE CHECKPOINT SITE]
[NODE 2: FREEWAY INTERCHANGE — STABILITY: LOW — NOT RECOMMENDED]
[NODE 3: ARGUS BUNKER — STABILITY: HIGH — OPTIMAL CHECKPOINT SITE]
[NOTE: CHECKPOINT ESTABLISHMENT REQUIRES LEVEL 7]
Three potential sites. The system mapped them onto my vision like waypoints in a video game. I filed the information away—useful for later, when I had the levels to act on it.
The ruins stretched around me as I walked. Collapsed buildings. Abandoned vehicles. Bones, occasionally, picked clean by whatever wildlife had adapted to this wasteland. Star City in 2046 was a tomb.
And in the show, this was supposed to be a warning. A possible future to avoid.
The meta-knowledge helped and hurt in equal measure. I knew the broad strokes—Grant Wilson, Connor Hawke, Oliver's last stand—but the details blurred. I'd watched this episode years ago. Some things stuck; others didn't.
My comm crackled. "Bennett, status."
"Clear so far," I replied. "Moving toward the industrial district. No hostiles."
"Keep it that way. Rip thinks the aberration source is somewhere in Wilson's territory."
"Copy."
The industrial district had fared worse than the rest of the city. Factories reduced to skeletal frames. Warehouses collapsed into themselves. And everywhere, the marks of violence—bullet holes, scorch marks, the occasional dark stain that might have been blood.
I found the ARGUS bunker twenty minutes later.
It didn't look like much from the outside—just another collapsed building among thousands. But the system's overlay showed different. Behind the rubble, beneath the decay, a hardened structure remained intact. Government construction. Built to survive apocalypses.
[ARGUS BUNKER — DETAILED SCAN]
[STRUCTURE: INTACT (87%)]
[DEFENSES: OFFLINE BUT REPAIRABLE]
[TEMPORAL STABILITY: 94%]
[OPTIMAL CHECKPOINT SITE — ISOLATED, DEFENSIBLE, SURVIVABLE]
[LEVEL REQUIREMENT: 7]
[CURRENT LEVEL: 1]
Six levels away. The number felt enormous and achievable at the same time. I was growing—slowly, but consistently. The bunker would wait.
Movement. To my left.
I dropped behind a concrete barrier, hand going to the pistol at my hip. Through the debris, I spotted figures moving—organized, armed, wearing matching tactical gear.
Wilson's forces.
I counted seven. Patrol pattern, disciplined spacing. Not amateurs.
[THREAT ASSESSMENT: HIGH — COMBAT NOT RECOMMENDED]
[RECOMMENDATION: EVADE AND REPORT]
Good advice. I waited until they passed, then circled back toward the rendezvous point.
The route took me through what had once been a residential neighborhood. Row houses, mostly collapsed. A few standing structures that looked habitable—barely. And in one of them, I found Sara.
She stood in front of a grave marker. Handmade, weathered, barely readable. But I could make out the name: QUENTIN LANCE.
Her father.
I stopped. Waited. This wasn't my moment—wasn't my grief. But walking away felt wrong too.
"I know you're there." Sara's voice was quiet. Controlled. "Bennett."
"I can leave."
"Stay." She didn't turn around. "I could use the company. Someone who doesn't have opinions about my family."
I moved closer. The grave marker was surrounded by others—dozens of them. A makeshift cemetery in someone's backyard, serving a community that couldn't afford anything more.
"He died fighting," Sara said. "That's what Connor told me. Wilson's first assault. Dad held a barricade with six police officers and held it for three hours. Gave the evacuation time to finish."
"That sounds like him."
"You didn't know him."
"No." I stopped beside her. "But I've watched you. The way you lead. The way you protect. That came from somewhere."
Sara was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice had softened. Just a fraction.
"Do you believe in fate, Bennett?"
The question caught me off guard. Philosophy wasn't something Sara engaged in lightly.
"I believe in changing things before they become fixed," I said. "Fate is just the name we give to outcomes we couldn't alter in time."
"That's either very cynical or very optimistic. I can't tell which."
"Both. Depending on the day."
She finally turned to face me. Her eyes were dry—whatever grief she felt, she'd processed it before I arrived. But something remained. Determination, maybe. Purpose.
"We're going to stop this future," she said. "All of it. Savage. Wilson. Everything."
"Yes. We are."
She nodded once, then started walking back toward the rendezvous. I followed.
The rest of the mission went badly.
Grant Wilson's forces ambushed us three blocks from the Waverider. Sara's combat skills bought us breathing room, but there were too many of them—trained soldiers against a scattered team. Ray provided air support until an EMP knocked out his suit. Mick's heat gun carved paths through the enemy lines, but even fire had limits against numbers.
I stayed in support. Providing cover fire. Calling positions. Trying not to die.
[COMBAT ANALYSIS: PERFORMANCE — ADEQUATE]
[HOST SURVIVAL: PRIORITY MAINTAINED]
[XP GAINED: +20 (MISSION PARTICIPATION)]
[CURRENT XP: 55/500]
We retreated. Wilson's forces didn't pursue—they had their territory to protect, and we weren't worth the casualties. The Waverider lifted off thirty minutes later, leaving 2046 to burn.
But I had the bunker coordinates. And one day, I'd return.
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