Now that I think about it, I was always meant to be an archer.
As a child, I'd always like to climb upwards. I loved to sit at the vantage point closest to the skies as I could reach and observe the world around me. Up high, I could find solace from my father and his harsh, rigorous training, as well as the mountains of abuse that never failed to accompany it. Jade's shadow, which I constantly found myself encompassed by, never managed to reach me up so high. She thought scrambling up anything I could was childish. She thought I was running away. She thought I was cowardly.
Here, I was able to escape all of the daily plagues my life was filled with.
Dad, however, soon discovered my penchant for ascent, for quiet observation. He put as many kinds of weapons and stealth gear on me as he could find, and sent me scrambling up trees, poles, electric fences, nets, anything anyone could humanly climb. The day he pressed a bow into my small hand, a forty-five pound (much too heavy for a seven year old girl to handle, under normal circumstances- but I guess I was never normal.) and a weight filled quiver to my back, we both discovered my true talent.
While I was easily an adequate climber, the feel of a bow in my hand far surpassed any feeling I'd ever had in my life. When I was allowed to shoot, I felt almost euphoric. Those first shots, while wildly off target, were filled with an emotion I had never felt while surrounded by my sister, by my father. By the cold steel walls of his so called "training facilities;"which more resembled an abandoned warehouse on the outskirt of the shadiest neighborhood in all of Gotham. Shooting that massive bow, forcing my thin smiled to myself when I loosed an arrow that found home within the bale of hay. When one made a satisfying thud and landed within the target, I smiled up at my father.
His focus, his stoicism, however, pulled me back to the ache in my shoulders and abs, the soreness of my fingers, and the spot where my arm guard had not proved to be adequate coverage, resulting in a bruise from where the string had thwacked against my then tender skin.
As the weeks passed, my father taught me silence. He timed how fast I could nock and shoot an arrow without making a sound. He had me complete obstacle courses while blindfolded lackeys listened for the slightest sound. If they caught me, they were ordered to attack me with knives- many of the scars on my body are results of this kind of training. He made me learn and perform with the accuracy of an Olympian how to shoot both recurve and compound bows in a variety of shapes, draw weights, and even what hand held the bow and what hand pulled the string.
He had me lift weights until I could shoot the heaviest bow he could find- a 150 lb. draw. Being only about 110 lbs at this point in my life, this task was remarkable. It should have been impossible, really. I think that shooting that bow was one of the only times in my life where I was aware that my own father was proud of me.
Soon, he introduced explosives. Arrows with tips that would act almost like fish hooks when shot into flesh- a thought I never was comfortable with. Screw on tips with blunt arrows, all encapsulating different things- high strength wire, to create zip lines or act as rope in case of emergency, as well as nets, and smoke bombs. I carried an arsenal in my specialized quiver that could rival the supplies of the Boy Wonder himself.
I had just turned fifteen when my mother was released from prison. Jade had left when she had gone to Belle Reve, two years after I had learned that a bow and arrow were my greatest assets in this world. I had endured something akin to torture during the six horrible years that i had , been left with my father- but the one thing that he had given me in those years was bravery. I was brave, and I was strong. In my entire life, I have not met someone who could have undergone the same things I did as the Sportsmaster's daughter. Not a soul.
When my mother arrived, she spoke to my father. In six years, my mother had finally chosen to be good. She wanted to start over, to live a new life. She wanted the same for me- I shudder to imagine what my father wanted me for, exactly, but I knew that it was nothing at all similar to the suggestion my mother made to him.
I had heard her words, spoken quietly, her accent making the words more tempting- more dream like. I was enchanted with the idea of being a hero. When I heard the sound of my mother's wheelchair being flipped on it's side, of her screams, of metal skittering left and right, I knew that this would not bode well.
And so, I packed up the few items I owned- a backpack full of civilian clothes, a jacket, a pair of boots, a toothbrush, and both my recurve and compound bows, as well as all the arrows I could carry. The one positive of living in our decrepit fourth floor walkup was the fire escape. I flew down the slick stairs wearing only socks, using all the training I had to not make a sound. My strength was an asset- I never felt the fatigue that a normal person would feel hauling the weight of all that equipment for the miles I sprinted out of North Gotham.
Since that night, I have found a new family, as well as my old one. I live in the same walk up with my mother, but I also live in a room with simple grey walls and a brown, hardwood floor, deep inside of the revered mount justice.
My name is Artemis Crock. I am the apprentice to the Green Arrow.
I am one of a kind.