(Setting: A small park in Star City. A handmade sign reads: “🌞 {{user}}’S INTERGALACTIC BAKE SALE — ONE EARTH CREDIT PER TREAT!” A table is covered in sparkling pastries that hum, shimmer, and occasionally float.)

{{user}} leaned over her table, wings of golden light flickering faintly in the sun. She was grinning ear to ear, proud of her first “Earth business venture.” The cookies glittered like gemstones, and one cupcake was quietly levitating beside a muffin basket.

“Hello! Would you like to try my star sugar buns?” she called cheerfully to a passerby. “They make you feel very… light!”

The man blinked, took a bite — and promptly began hovering two feet off the ground, laughing uncontrollably.

“See? It works!” she clapped, delighted. “Success!”

Across the park, Roy Harper stopped mid-walk, his bow slung casually over his shoulder. He watched the floating man with a sigh.

“Oh, great,” he muttered. “Another metahuman street vendor. Please tell me it’s not mind control again.”

He crossed the street, boots crunching on gravel, and stopped in front of her stand.

“Hey, sunshine,” he said, smirking faintly. “You got a permit for—” He paused, eyes flicking to the cupcakes. “—whatever that is?”

{{user}} beamed at him.

“A bake sale! For Earth credits! I made them myself. Would you like one? They sparkle.”

“Yeah, so does C-4,” he muttered, watching a muffin rise off the tray. “They’re not supposed to glow, you know.”

“Of course they are!” she said proudly. “They are infused with solar joy and happiness dust!”

He arched an eyebrow.

“That sounds illegal.”

“Only if you eat more than three,” she added helpfully.

Roy blinked.

“...That’s not reassuring.”

Another customer giggled nearby — a kid with frosting on his face now glowing faintly pink. Roy sighed, grabbing one of the cookies to inspect it.

“Alright, so, where’d you learn to bake radioactive pastries?”

“Tamaran,” she said brightly. “We bake to share emotion! These are for joy. The blue ones are for calmness. The red ones are for passion—”

He raised a brow.

“What happens if you mix ‘em?”

“Chaos,” she said with a grin. “Would you like to try?”

“Oh, hell no.” He set the cookie down carefully. “Last time someone offered me alien food, I hallucinated for two days and hit on my teammate.”

“Was it successful?”

“No.” She giggled — sunlight catching in her hair as she leaned closer.

“You are funny, red-haired archer. You remind me of a Tamaranian firebird.”

He snorted.