So I'm back in hopes of leaving you with a story that this time is less of a cliff hanger or as I like to say a chose your own ending. This is my lovely sequel to Fair. Honestly I no longer have any idea where I am going with this while before I had the plot all mapped out a head of time. So I fear the plot may suffer.

I do proof read! A lot! Sorry that I don't got mad editing skills.

p.s. I don't really care, this is just for fun. If you wish to really help me with my editing tell me what I did wrong. Did I say why instead of while, or get there and their mixed up. It could truly take me years to notice, so don't be shy about politely pointing that out. You don't have to but it is constructive. :)

I do not own young justice and I am in no way profiting from this fanfic

"Sports Master." Raul Shall Ghoul entered the room and nodded to the masked assassin, "Glad you made it."

"Skip the small talk. I've waited for you long enough. What is it you want Ghoul?" Sports Master towered over his next victim. A man who lay helplessly on the floor, his mouth gagged with a golf ball so the poor fellow was left struggling not to choke. He swung his slick titanium putter back in forth eerily slow pace, lining up the prefect shot. Raul Shall Ghoul looked at the battered man with a certain level of disgust as if mad at him for bleeding on the carpet. They stood in a dark room, devoid of any features besides a large screen behind Ghoul that stretched wall to wall, floor to ceiling.

"You should be more gracious. I am doing this as a kindness. I myself have nothing to gain by showing you this. However, I think you will find this information to be of value. As you know my associates and I have been keeping an eye on this junior justice league and I thought you might want to see this." The screen flickered to life, showing an enlarged image of two teens in a passionate embrace, all you could make out of one was the bright red back of his hair and the shocking yellow of his uniform. The pair fell back towards the camera and out of sight as the camera plummeted toward the floor, landing with a bounce, then rolled, the resulting image was disorienting. Sports' Master's knuckles turned white as he clenched the club in rage. He took the shot. Blood splattered the screen, painting the two lovers red.

"Four."

Wally's POV

"Wally, you're in denial." That what Canary had said, that awful day in the cave. Then I said "I'm okay with that." But I wasn't, because I'm not truly in denial. Being in denial would be so much easier then accepting the truth. That the girl whom I'm hopelessly in love with won't date me because of some stupid reason that she won't even tell me. That my own best friend was willing to lie to me if it meant saving the world, good reason, but still. Then there was the fact that I was so happy that none of it was real, but ever night, when I went to bed, I'd lie awake for hours. Afraid that when I'd wake this would all be a dream and she would still be dead. It would be easier just to pretend that I didn't feel this way. That I hadn't felt like my whole world had been swallowed up and I was left to drift aimlessly through space, unable to breathe yet unable to die. Clinging onto the slights hope that somehow I would get my world back again. Somehow this would not be my last breath of air.

It was easier not admitting that for a split second before I thought I died I was happy. I wouldn't have to live with that unbelievable emptiness anymore. I wouldn't have to live with having nothing left but pain. Maybe, just maybe, if all this God and heaven stuff is real. I could see her again. That there we could be together.

How can I say that? How do I tell someone as hot and cool as Canary that I was a mess? That when I found out Artemis was truly dead I wanted to die. That suddenly the earth, which I swore to protect, doesn't matter anymore. Or how about the fact that no matter the reason she didn't want to be with me. I couldn't say those words out loud. I'm too ashamed. It would be easier to be in denial.

I couldn't tell her how Artemis had let me hold her in her arms, let me feel that she was real, only to push me father away again. It hurts less now; it gets easier to separate the nightmare from reality every day. I just don't want to let her out of my sight. I notice things I never did before. Signs of remolding in the cartilage of her nose. Not that I don't have my own share of remolding but hers looked as if it was broken several times at a young age. The way she was always looking over her shoulder, as if some one was after her. Somebody hurt her, bad. And knowing that just made me want hurt them. Real bad.

I never truly want to hurt anybody. I know it may sound funny but that's the truth. All I really want do is to help people. In all honesty it sucks having to beat the shit out of somebody because it the only way to stop them from hurting some one else. A lot of these guys they just need some help themselves. Saying that may make me sound like kind of a pansy but whatever, who cares? I always say I'm a lover not a fighter. But having this feeling, this desire to physical harm someone disgusts me. The mere thought that someone caused her this much pain fills me with such an animalistic rage that it leaves me shaking. I try so hard to protect people, to save them from all the things that seek to destroy their happiness. And that may sound cheesy but the thing is I can't protect her. As much as I want to I can't. I'm powerless. Just some helpless kid. That is what makes me sick. So sick that I forget who I am.

That is what keeps me up at night.

Artemis's POV

When I was thirteen I had my first cigarette. Even at that age quite a few of my friends smoked, so they were readily available to me. The smell was always nasty, and I didn't quite see the appeal of swallowing the thick smoke into my lungs. My father always enforced a very strict policy on these kinds of things. After all, smoking reduces lung capacity. Reduced lung capacity hinders endurance. Hindered endurance equals dead. If you're dead you're useless. If you can't get the job done, you might as well be dead.

I don't know why I did it. Maybe it was the grim thought that I would never make it to forty anyways. That feeling that I was destined to die young. So who really gives a shit? I knew the consequences would be steep if he found out. I knew better to even think about defying him. Part of me must have known that he'd find out. Yet I did it anyway. I inhaled that first cigarette, on school grounds. Then, caught up in the rush of my secret rebellion, I pocked a pack of the things from a stranger's basket at the liquor store, and then hid them in my room. I don't know what I thought I would accomplish by this.

When I had my second cigarette it was laced with gun powder. Not enough to permanently damage me, just enough to burn me, singeing my hair and clothes. My father had laughed, "You wanted to smoke. Now you're smoking!" The burns healed without scaring. My lashes and eyebrows grew back to the normal length and consistency. And I never touch a never cigarette again. And for the longest time I didn't dare cross him again.

Till now. I want to live to forty. So I had no choice but to turn my back on him. To defy him. My father doesn't take well to people that defy him. My father is one sadistic and cruel son of bitch who take great pleasure in punishing those who disobey him.

If I was to let things continue to go this way with Wally there was no doubt my whole life was going to blow up in my face. Including Wally.

So I can't let him wear me down. I have to keep my properties strait. I have to keep Wally and the others safe. It's my fault they're in his path. It my fault he's interested in them at all. Put I can't feel sorry for myself, for the team. For all the pain this could cause them. For all the pain it's caused Wally. No, I can't be sorry. Not if I want to live long enough to grow old, like a normal person. I can't waist time feeling sorry but I can feel angry. Angry because he saw fit to take away any chance I had at having a normal life. I can never just be a civilian, no matter how much I want to be. I was trained to kill, and that not just something you can turn off. It's not just something that just goes away because you want it to. Now the only choice is to use that training against him, and all the others like him.

That's the only way to make it right. But it will never be alright because I'll always be stuck bitter and angry simply because I have to spend my life having to condone for the sins of my father. And the sins of my mother for I seem to be the only one who has the God Damn heart to forgive her. Not that I really blame anyone who can't. Now I also have to be good enough to undo the work of my sister too. If Wally knew how people look at me as I walk down the street; how they whisper the name of my father, how they talk about my mother, how I have to fight so hard just not to yell, "Fuck you!" because yelling crab like that don't get you anywhere with those kind of people. Or how sometimes the blood running through my veins, his blood, feels like poison. The shame I live with every day being the murder's kid, who had to grow up most of her life without a mom because she was in jail, and whose own sister couldn't be bothered with her. That some days I feel like I some kind of stupid martyr for my family name. If he knew these things I don't think I could look at him again.

But being angry, that's okay. I can channel that anger, keep it from distracting me, concentrate so I can use it to protect the people I love. Letting them see how truly scared I am that is not an option. Even though I am – scared.

Scared because I've never been able to protect anything from him.