Tucked away in Gotham is a picturesque graveyard. The grass is a lush shade of green, even when snow begins to fall, each gravestone immaculately maintained so the marble gleams in the light, fresh flowers rest upon the stone, seeming to never wilt or brown. In the center there's a pavilion, made of pale stone and glass. Most days, there are grievers, weeping for those they've lost. Gotham is a large city; people die every day, both violently and otherwise.

There was once a special commemoration in that building. Private, paid in cash, a false name given for the booking. The manager asked no questions, instead taking the day off and assuming he'd find the place intact. That day, faces from all over the country arrived, from billionaires to scientists, from college students to a man from Mars. This was the second funeral of Artemis Crock, and this time, the casket was full.

"Artemis died a hero." M'gann's voice was tight, barely restraining the tears she so desperately wanted to cry. "I…I said these words before—less than a year ago even—and I'll say them again: she was a good friend, a kind-hearted hero who believed in justice. She of all people proved that good could come out of anywhere."

The Martian wiped away a stray tear. "Shit," she murmured, the microphone barely catching the curse. She tried smiling as she resumed her eulogy, instead producing a painful contortion of the mouth, more tears starting to drip from her eyes. "She made a huge sacrifice for the team, and her death—" Her voice cracked. "Sorry. Artemis's passing will be a great sadness to us all. But her memory lives on."

She hurried away from the podium, finally allowing the tears to run freely down her face. The small gathering clapped somberly, the echoes filling the large pavilion. The multitude of windows allowed the bright morning sunlight to stream in, warming the mourners in their dress clothes. It felt wrong with the morbid atmosphere; the death of a hero like Artemis required the world to mourn, including the weather. However, that morning it wasn't so. The day went on as if one of the greatest young heroes of the time hadn't died recently; for all intents and purposes, nobody died.

Heroes were practically immortal to the bright-eyed public. Only they themselves, their loved ones, and their enemies realized the fine line between their job and mortality that they teetered on every day. They couldn't afford to acknowledge it though. They stood for justice, and justice couldn't waver or show weakness in the public eye. Therefore, the world's best and bravest mourned in private, showing no acknowledgement of their loss; the public eye saw no change, and all was as it should be…at least on the surface.

After M'gann delivered the final eulogy, the crowd awkwardly broke up, gathering around the picture collages and talking in their small groups, sharing the pain as best as they could. To each of them, Artemis Crock meant different things: a legend, recanted often when remembering the original Team from days past; a friend who straddled the line between being fun and going too far; a mentor and inspiration. Student, daughter, and lover. The members of the Team and Justice League milled about, sharing stories and reliving their favorite Artemis stories. All but one.

Dick Grayson sat alone at the bar, slouched over the counter and staring blankly at the bottle of Bacardi mere inches from his face. He considered pouring himself another drink, but decided against it; if he poured another shot, he'd have to pick up his head to drink it, which meant he might make eye contact. He couldn't meet anyone's eye and see their disgust, or worse: pity. Hell, he could barely look in the mirror that morning to fix his tie without feeling utter disgust for himself.

Being there… it was torture. He had attended Artemis's funeral once before; even though it was fake, he couldn't bear the overwhelming sadness. Now… it was real. Artemis was really dead. No conspiracies, no heart-stopping pills, no blood packets or bendy water swords, nothing. She was dead. The thought hit him like a train for the third time that day, thirteenth that week, and he decided that the drink was necessary. Without lifting his head, he picked up the bottle and filled the tiny glass. He quickly picked himself up and downed the fiery liquid before dropping back to his rather unresponsive state.

"Hey." The voice was strained and hoarse. Dick shifted his head, laying his cheek against the cool bar counter. Wally stood rigidly, his arms crossed as he glared into Dick's semi-glazed eyes, as if no words could express the mess of emotions that lay just below the surface. "I thought you said you weren't coming." It was a threat; that much Dick could tell. He wasn't wanted there, especially not by Wally.

"I didn't think I could go." Correction: he hadn't known if he would be strong enough to show his face. The nights after Artemis's death were vivid with nightmares, always about that night. Red. All he sees is red. The dark tan skin, the forest green costume, all drowned under a crimson tide ebbing from the gaping hole in her stomach. Red stains his clothes, his skin, as he tries to listen for a heartbeat. It's all so messy, so warm and wet and slimy and real.

Wally's mouth is moving, but he can't hear. All he hears is his own screaming, the pounding of his feet as he runs through the carnage, barely dodging bullets and beams being shot at him as he runs towards the blonde. He panics, tries to stem the flow to no avail. The precious liquid slips between his fingers, staining the gloves and seeping through the material. It burns against his skin.

"Are you even listening?" But he's too far gone as he falls further into the memory of that night, that horrible, horrible night as Black Beetle slides his blade through her as if slicing a tender piece of meat. He closes his eyes and wishes the nightmare away, wishes the clock to reverse and erase this moment from history—

"Whatever. I hope it was worth it."

"Arte—she knew the risks." At least, she thought she did. He thought he did, too. He tried to pour another shot.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" His chair crashed to the floor, taking the halfway buzzed acrobat with it. The alcohol spilled onto Dick's clothes, but he wasn't paying attention to such an insignificant happenstance. Wally stood above him, fuming. "Don't try to pass this off on Artemis!"

"I'm not trying to—"

"This is all your fucking fault!" Heads turned to see the dispute, but some tried to ignore it, passing it off as something that would blow over. Dick didn't get up. "If you had been there for her—"

"Wait, if I had been there? If I remember correctly, you were holed up nice and tight at your little Stanford apartment. Why weren't you there? Oh right, because you're retired." He was sick of Wally's bullshit and blame game. He stood up and met the redhead eye to eye. "Real heroes don't retire. They go on until they can't anymore. You didn't retire; you quit."

Wally's nostrils flared in anger, and his eyes gleamed with rage. "How dare you—"

"No." He jabbed Wally sharply in the chest, making him step back. "How dare you. You're a coward. You're no hero anymore, and Artemis was ten times the hero you ever were."

"Don't you dare say here name!" Wally grabbed Dick by the collar, roughly shoving him against the bar. The shot glass and the bottle crashed to the floor, scattering glass behind the bar. Suddenly, everyone's eyes were on them, drawn by the noise and commotion. They were too stunned to react. Wally's eyes were wet with tears. "You sent her in like… like a sacrifice. Was it really worth her dying?"

"Worth her—do you even hear yourself? Do you hear how selfish you sound? Was Artemis dying worth the safety of the entire fucking planet? The end of intergalactic war? No matter how much I miss her, the answer's a definitive 'yes.'" He pushed Wally hard, getting his weight off him.

"You know what, Wally? You're not allowed to talk about her sacrifice. You weren't there in the heat of battle. You weren't there when we nearly got overwhelmed by the Reach. I did everything I could to save her. Shame we couldn't rush her to the medical bay, isn't it? If we weren't so fucking slow there, Artemis might've lived. Oh wait, speed isn't our department; it's yours. You're a pussy, you know? Leaving the team stranded like that..." His lip curled contemptuously at the memory. He was fuming now, practically trembling in anger at the redhead.

"Fucking hell! Do you know how worried I was for her? Every day, I worried about her, you, everyone. Every day, I was checking all the news stations just to make sure nobody I cared about died." His eyes were wet as he yelled back at the brunette, his hands clenched so tight that he was drawing blood.

"If you cared so much, then why weren't you by our side?"

Wally was enraged beyond speech. With a feral caterwaul he launched himself at this best friend—former best friend. The two grappled viciously, trying to injure each other. "I hate you!" Wally yelled at him as he aimed at Dick's stomach. He threw wild punches, undisciplined like a scrap brawler.

Dick dodged easily, slamming into Wally and knocking him to the ground. He vaguely felt a pang of guilt at having such an encounter at Artemis's wake of all places, but he was too busy trying to knock sense into Wally's thick head. This was nothing like the calculated combat style he used against villains; this was pure emotion made tangible and visible to all.

"Enough!" Suddenly they were apart, suspended in mid-air by M'gann's telekinesis. Her face was stern, her eyes incensed. "You two are acting like five-year-olds. Can't you behave yourselves, for Artemis's sake?" The two refused to meet anyone's eyes, especially each other's.

Kaldur crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing. "I am ashamed of both of you. Surely, you know better. Wally, I know you lost someone so dear to you, but remember that you are not the only one who has lost someone they love."

For a brief moment, his eyes transformed from the alpha leader look they usually bore; instead, they were the heartbroken eyes from nearly two years ago, the eyes they all remembered from that mission: the mission where the first of their ranks fell. For months, they thought they lost their leader to the insanity of loss. Even Dick, who had been aware of the conspiracy the entire time, was constantly afraid that Kaldur would lose it, fall into depression and give up. But he didn't. He pulled through doing so much good to prove that Tula hadn't died in vain.

"And you, Dick," M'gann interjected. "You don't have any right to scold Wally. He made his choices, and we made ours. Artemis made hers as well. We can't change any of that now. All we can do is live on and honor her memory.

"I'm going to put you down. If you won't be civil, I'm sending you both out, and that is not an idle threat. Do I make myself clear?"

Neither responded, but she set them down anyways. Dick pulled his jacket off the ground. "Whatever. I was gonna leave anyways." He brushed past M'gann, ignoring the offer at kindness and solace. He could feel every gaze upon him, differing mixtures of worry, disappointment, scorn, and fear. Conner laid a hand on his shoulder—to stop him? to comfort him?—but Dick brushed it off. Kaldur was impassive as he stood in front of the door. For a moment, Dick didn't want to go. He wanted to stay and patch everything over until they could all pretend that a piece of their hearts wasn't missing, but Wally was stubborn and bitter. He was too in love, too hung up on his loss; Dick's presence wasn't helping. He needed to leave, at least for now.

Minutes later, he zoomed out of the parking lot and onto the highway, indulging his need for speed at an almost suicidal pace. Usually, he was a fairly careful driver as far as superheroes were concerned, but he needed something to fill the gaping cavity inside, and the overwhelming rush of adrenaline started bridging that gap. Soon, he was out of Gotham, off to somewhere, anywhere, that was loud and hectic enough to distract him. He flew down the open roads alone and silent, save for the roar in his ears. It almost managed to deafen him to Artemis's cries of pain that still haunted his memories. Almost.

Three days had passed since the Incident at the Wake. The hero community did its very best to continue as always without Artemis , and all civilians associated with the League and Team—including a certain redheaded ex-hero—did their very best to not acknowledge the events of the fight and the reasons behind it. Wally had taken up residence at Roy Harper's apartment, babysitting Lian to earn his keep. Jade wasn't too fond of having the mopey speedster around her daughter, and it took all of Roy's assurances to keep him there. He was a good babysitter, better than the others they hired, probably because he knew where Lian was specifically not allowed.

However, it was getting strained after a few days. Wally had been careful not to deplete their pantry every day, but Jade was irritated by his presence nonetheless, probably due to his ties to her sister and his incessant moping. Even Lian could tell that something was wrong with "Unca Walls." It didn't help that the apartment was pretty small and strained when it was solely the Harper-Nguyen family. Roy was soon convinced (read: coerced) by Jade to kick Wally out or to leave his "departure" to her means. With that warning, Wally was unceremoniously dumped on the front step, his belongings hastily thrown into a duffel bag.

Wally loathed the idea of returning to their—his—Stanford home, but he had nowhere else to stay. He had been avoiding the apartment, opting to stay at the Watchtower, at the Allens house, and most recently at the Harper-Nguyen household. He started heading west, but took a detour and ran to Amarillo, Texas, where he found and ate a steak the size of a bicycle seat. He then hit San Diego, Taipei, Bangladesh, Athens, London, and soon found himself back where he started. He managed to kill two hours by eating at all his stops, making it another two hours successfully running away from his problems. However, Roy wasn't too happy seeing the speedster appear by the fire escape where he was enjoying a beer.

"I thought I told you to scram, or else Jade'll get you."

"I know, and I did, but I just… I don't know, Roy."

The older man's eyes softened. "Look, you're gonna have to face this eventually. And I know that sucks to hear, but you have to man up and accept it. You aren't fast enough to run from your problems; no one is."

"You managed," Wally shot back sulkily. "You kept after the real Roy Harper without acknowledging the existential crisis."

Roy winced. "You saw where that got me." He climbed over the edge of the gate, dropping down and landing with a dull thud by the speedster. "You can't move on until you face your problems. It took me five years and a wakeup call from my wife to do that. Yeah, I ran, but that didn't hold well, and it won't hold for you either. Now, either you're gonna march yourself outta here, or I'll drive you kicking and screaming to wherever it is you're staying."

"You'd drive all the way to Palo Alto from here?"

"If it'll get you out of my hair." The older redhead gave him a knowing smile, one that an older brother would give. "It's gonna suck right now, but I promise you, it's for the best. Do I need to get the keys?"

"Actually, I think I'll see myself out."

"Good. I don't think Jade would think too kindly of me walking out on them."

That final conversation had been over an hour ago. Wally had been standing outside the door for fifty-nine minutes, too emotionally unstable to get any closer to the apartment that was now solely his. Those fifty-nine minutes were practically a forever in speedster time, but he couldn't delay it any longer.

"Like ripping off a Band-aid," he told himself bravely as he found himself face to face with the off-white door of his apartment. His… it had such a heavy finality to it. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the key, ready to unlock the house and get that impending wave of pain out of the way. "C'mon, West, don't be a baby." He stuck the key in and closed his eyes, as if expecting a bomb to go off. He cracked open an eye as he turned the key agonizingly slowly even for a non-meta, hearing every tumbler click in the dead silent hallway. He exhaled slowly through his nose, finally opening both his eyes as he pushed open the door. It's just an apartment, nothing more he told himself. Quit being such a scaredy cat.

The room was exactly as he left it nearly two weeks ago, albeit covered with a light layer of dust. After Artemis…after hearing about her death, he had avoided coming back for as long as possible. The school year wasn't quite finished, but he didn't care anymore. He could always reapply or something. You only lose a loved one once.

Tentatively, he stepped into the room, as if a bomb were set to go off. Nothing happened. Nothing at all. No called greeting from the kitchen or the living room. No humming of appliances. No signs of life anywhere. It was all incredibly disconcerting, and Wally felt dissociated from the hard reality. It couldn't be reality, not with everything so still and quiet, as if time had stopped.

But he couldn't lie to himself anymore. Weeks of crying and running away from the situation only brought him closer to the hard cold truth of Artemis's death, and the comforting notion he longed to flee to only worsened the matter at hand. He felt a sharp pang in his heart as he said aloud, "Artemis is dead." In the cold, still silence, the words reverberated—at least, they did in his head. And somehow, it was worse than being there—probably as Dick had been—holding her lifeless body in her arms. He fell to his knees, imagining the heavy weight, the heat of the battle, the disgustingly warm sensation of blood seeping through a long-retired speed suit.

And it fucking hurt.

But he wasn't sad anymore. He didn't have enough tears for sadness.

He was angry.

It wasn't fucking fair. He had quit. Artemis had quit. But by the fucking look of it, there was no such thing as quitting. You were in it for the long haul, even if you wanted to settle down, even if you wanted a family. Hell, injury often didn't stop people. It was a life they were intimately familiar with, a life that they had escaped—or so they thought. Instead, that life wrapped its slimy tentacles around Artemis, dragged her back in, and ripped her to shreds, leaving him there to pick up the pieces.

It wasn't fucking fair.

He felt his hands tremble with rage. The world wasn't a fucking fair place, and Artemis was yet another victim. No one deserved to go through that again. No one should be forced back into the goddamn rat race just because some circus freak who wasn't even of legal drinking age said so.

Wally West of Earth. He turned around, trying to pinpoint the voice. It felt omnipresent, coming from everywhere and nowhere at all. The voice resonated, filling the room with an inexplicable heat. You have great rage in your heart. He could feel himself physically reacting to the words. His heart was pounding, his blood was boiling in his veins, a cold shiver ran down his spine. You belong to the Red Lantern Corps. It floated in front of him, a red ring with an ominous glow, not unsimilar from the one Hal Jordan wore. He vaguely remembered hearing about these other power rings and was instantly wary.

Give in. "No." The Ring knows your pain. "Never. I—I won't."

Give in.

And suddenly, he wasn't in his apartment. He was in the heat of battle. Red. All he sees is red. The dark tan skin, the forest green costume, all drowned under a crimson tide ebbing from the gaping hole in her stomach. Red stains his clothes, his skin, as he tries to listen for a heartbeat. It's all so messy, so warm and wet and slimy and real.

It was Artemis. His Artemis who he missed with every fiber of his being, who was gone in the blink of an eye because of an insane system of "heroics" that they subscribed to as kids. And once again, the floodgates opened. The anger and hatred lying in his heart were loud and real, engulfing the hole in his heart emptied by his tears. It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair at all.

"Someone must pay."

You will have your revenge. This your new master Atrocitus promises. The ring was gone from his sight. It had slid onto his ring finger—he wasn't quite sure when—and rest snuggly there. He felt…

Felt…

"Like I can take on the world."

"With blood and rage of crimson red,

Ripped from a corpse so freshly dead,

Together with our hellish hate,

We'll burn you all-that is your fate!"

I'm not too satisfied with the ending... Actually, I'm not satisfied with a lot. I got this idea back when YJ ended and had plans for a multichapter fic. But I'm flaky, so I didn't. I only recently found this again, so I decided to finish it and give it to y'all. Constructive criticism appreciated. I really liked the idea, but the execution is shaky at best.