Take Artemis Crock as you know her. Hold her in our mind and examine who she is. Examine her past, her present, her hope for the future. Wrap everything you know about her into one package, and imagine that load with a shiny green ribbon tied around it. Secure her image, her essence and check the wrapping for leaks of gold pouring out.
Then, once you've figured out everything that's her, her aspirations and nightmares, put that package away somewhere cool and away from the sun. Tuck it away on a high shelf, protected from time, the harshest element of them all.
Don't worry: For once in her life she'll be safe.
Now, with Artemis Crock out of your mind and tucked away, take the liberty of participating in an exercise.
Imagine an Artemis that was different, but still her. Imagine a girl who never applied for the Wayne scholarship and hated herself even more for getting it. Imagine a girl who couldn't imagine her leaving Gotham North, and imagine her knowing people who would give anything to leave. Imagine a girl who worked to cover up the scars left by the streets she never regretted, never truly left, because she got out.
(She didn't deserve to bear those battles)
Imagine an Artemis who brings every dirty, roughed up kid from the streets, her streets, home and feeds them meals her mother cannot afford to share. Imagine her trying not to see herself in each one. Imagine her, instead, trying to compensate for the opportunity she didn't have to give.
Imagine an Artemis that memorized and recites the M. Wayne Scholarship pamphlet at inappropriate places in conversations. Imagine a Barbara who'd recite it with her. Imagine the conversation between the two that results in Barbara reciting it a little less.
("I didn't know these things when I got the letter in the mail. I can't let myself forget that." Imagine Barbara not having Artemis' sense of humor.)
Imagine a girl who makes an excellent rags-to-riches story and resents herself for it. Imagine a girl from a world that some fight to escape but never do. Imagine a girl who hates herself for it. Imagine a girl who is fueled, not for herself, but for the kids who never could be her, who didn't have friends who had friends in high places.
(Part of it is for her mother, who existed on those streets much longer than she had and saw chances to snatch for the opportunities they were when they appeared. Imagine an Artemis that learned that lesson the hard way after she didn't have to use it at all. Imagine her trying to come to terms with things she was and was not supposed to snatch.)
Imagine a girl who never started a conversation about where she's from, but refused to shy away from the ugly truths that others like to paste over, using her face on a poster as a sign that "We did it". Imagine an Artemis who refused to let others forget that she did it, that it was because of her.
(Well, her and a hefty scholarship. But it wasn't the funding others tried to take credit for, that she was afraid of getting erased. It was the legwork, the tears, the resentment, and self-hate that was a result of hours of studying and attempts at coping emotionally.)
Imagine an Artemis that refuses to let children go quietly into the night, to let the streets consume them and to let them fade from existence. Imagine someone who refuses to let any more girls, any more boys, any more bodies, slip through the system like sand through fingers at the beach. Imagine an Artemis who knows the choice and how difficult it is to make it, when every option is a hard place and you're between a foster family that just needs you for a paycheck and a father that resents you for taking away his.
Imagine an Artemis who refuses to let people forget that girls like her existence, not ones in plaid, uniform skirts with ugly color schemes, but ones with unfashionably-worn jeans with the holes in the knees and the thighs and a secret one in the crotch because they can't afford to prioritize spending money on another pair.
(She also sees herself in the girls who she passes in the hallways of the academy, the ones with the subtle, repaired runs in their tights, patched over with thin, black thread and clear coat nail polish in an attempt to prevent any more visual holes from spreading in their life. She makes sure to craftily mention a place to get cheap stockings online during a conversation about dance, not having to mention the plus about not having to go into the store and stare down the bored cashier who's never been where you are and who will hopefully never be.)
Imagine a girl who starts her own investigation into the kids that go missing, and the bodies that show up in the asylum's back yard. Imagine that that's how she gets the League's attention, the Bat's attention. Because she's been sticking her nose in places where it doesn't belong. "You know what also doesn't belong there? Myra, age 14, Cameron, age 17. Countless kids have been here, where they don't belong. And, for some reason, my nose is the only thing you care about."
(Artemis sometimes hated herself because she understood. She understood why he thought Joker blowing up something new or the Riddler messing with the banks would hold precedent over kids no one ever cared about. She couldn't disagree and couldn't let it go. The only thing she could do is to see her in those missing posters that get ripped down, and hates herself even more.)
Imagine an Artemis who has mostly concrete documentation on every loose end that Strange tried to tie up. Imagine an Artemis with a thick stack of file folders and a disdain for the man who deems himself worthy of his doctorate. Imagine an Artemis who refuses to back down when the Bat tries to intimidate her (to protect her), because if he's got such bigger things to worry about, then he should let her handle this, let her do this for that community.
Because that's really what her streets are, were. They're not the narrows, not the cesspools of the city. They're a shamble of a community. It was small and cracked but it was theirs. It was theirs and they knew her mother by name and always asked if she needed bus money when she was alone on the street. They were a community with a dying population that no one cares about full of people that the Bat doesn't really have time for. Not that she blames him. Scarecrow poisoning the watering hole is a bit more important than the number of presumed runaways continually shooting up.
(However, she did have the time to sift through numbers that don't add up, cells that shouldn't have be filled, because she doesn't have an antidote anyway. This is the least she can do, all that she has to give. Because her mother really cannot afford the meals and she still can't afford the scholarship.)
Imagine an Artemis that wants to study law, not so she can prosecute the criminals who make her classmates clutch their pearl and diamond tennis bracelets, but to rescue the ones who never learned their rights well enough to know that they can exercise them. Imagine her pouring over books of grants and scholarships when she's not pouring over textbooks and study guides. Imagine her wanting to earn the right to her future this time.
Imagine an Artemis that, upon her acceptance into the academy, after her resulting argument with her mother, and after the subsequent acceptance, learned to hold her tongue. She was chosen, meaning it is not her place to remind the public of those who weren't. She learned to hold her tongue, by pressing it behind her teeth, so it won't show when she poses for the picture on the pamphlet.
Sometimes it would catch on the edge of a canine and the pain that shot through her was sharp enough to remind her why she's still here.
Imagine an Artemis who bides her time. Imagine one that learns the system, practices the game, and prepares for the battle of her life. Imagine an Artemis who bites her cheek and smiles too sharply to be sweet, who participates in team sports, who sweetly speaks French back at her teacher, and who sits with her legs crossed at the ankle at promotional meets for the school. Imagine an Artemis who enlists Bette, the most natural Queen Bee she's ever seen, in teaching her all of the nuances of getting her way.
Imagine this Artemis from a position of power that she carefully clawed her way into. Watch her in your mind's eye as she spits out resistance to the bullshit that she's expected to accept spoon-fed down her throat. Imagine an Artemis who is grateful, but not forgetful. One that knows she's lucky but also owes no one her tragedy.
(Imagine an Artemis who knows that she's lucky enough to not even be remotely considered a tragedy. Imagine her knowing what true tragedies look like, and that they don't have clean nails at the end of well-calloused, rough hands.)
Imagine an Artemis who has seen the world at its worst, and is unfazed by anything less. Imagine an Artemis who has seen others' ignoring her when the world's at its most, and is unfazed by them as well. She's walked both sides of the line, worn overly-patched jeans as well as knife-pleated skirts. She'd make it wearing either one.
This Artemis would still have her anger, still let it fester like a low burning ember. She'd still hold it close to her chest, as a shield for her, for the world. She'd still have learned it from her sister, though this may have been from her leaving or from her staying. This Artemis would wield that anger and those pleats and her blonde hair and precise smile as a weapon. She was a schoolgirl, a scholarship kid, but she was also a warrior.
Imagine an Artemis that found her place in the world amongst the gymnasts, who thoroughly worked their way through all seven sins. Envy and pride were the tenets of their house, pushing them to do better. They were greedy for more and unapologetic. "Why should I be ashamed of wanting?", one girl recalled during an account of a confrontation with a boy who should have known better. "When has anyone great been ashamed of wanting greatness?"
(Artemis considered this lesson to be one worthy of writing down, over and over, on the inside of her planners. This thought said in passing was worthy of carving into her bones. "I will not be ashamed of wanting, nor will I shame others for it." She wanted to embroider the words on her lungs. Maybe then she could breathe better.)
Imagine an Artemis who knew the difference between being grateful to someone and being indebted to them. Imagine her learning it the hard way, the only way she knows how to learn. Remember that the only other lesson that hard that she learned was how to trust.
Imagine a Bruce Wayne who finds out that yes, she is thankful for the scholarship. Imagine him finding out that, even with the tuition paid, she struggles to pay for the books, for the uniform, for the inanities that she cannot afford to trade her education for. Imagine an Artemis explaining to Bruce that no, she doesn't think that she (or her mother) owes him anything, so he doesn't need to worry about making sure she knows that.
Imagine an Artemis who gets tired of hating herself, tired of resenting her "luck". Imagine an Artemis who harvests her anger and uses it to actually do something. Imagine an Artemis that willing goes to the galas, exchanges business cards and only kind of forced smiles. Imagine one who refuses to be a sob story but is willing to pose for pictures regardless.
Imagine an Artemis that is not afraid of the Justice League, of her father, of the things that go bump in the daylight as well as the night. Well, imagine that she isn't.
(Honestly, she's more than a little afraid. She was terrified of the things that were able to survive under the scrutiny of the light of day, like some unholy vampiric creatures. But no one else deserves her fear except for her.)
Imagine an Artemis that stares down the team and refuses to cease and desist her investigations. "What legal standing do you hold? Please, let's discuss this in court." Imagine an Artemis that, unblinkingly, recounts every kid that she's seen snatched from the streets, every missing child report that goes ignored, every dollar Strange has made off of the blood and bones and futures of her community. Imagine her spitting out half a statistic before taking it back, cutting herself off with a, "Oh wait, sorry, That one was supposed to be me."
Imagine an Artemis who constantly, inwardly, thanks Cameron for this, for pulling her around the right corner at the right time when she ended up in the wrong place that one Saturday evening she was supposed to be doing something better.
Imagine an Artemis that is expected to resent her criminal parents, criminal sister. All Artemises are, really. Imagine one that refuses to, however, because the people talking shit weren't the ones putting food on her plate, or replacing the threadbare sheets on her twin bed. They're not even the ones who are willing to replace her holey tights. Instead, they gather around for her story at galas, making this Artemis feel like her life is more fiction than fact.
This Artemis was never one much for commercialization, was never good at playing to the audience. Maybe this Artemis should have been a pageant queen. Maybe the other Artemis should have used it.
Imagine an Artemis standing polite but defiant in the face of all those that oppose her, oppose her home, all those who want her to outwardly resent where she started. Imagine an Artemis who is forced fed contempt for her Lawrence, contempt for Jade. Imagine a girl who is unwilling to say those words to soothe the mostly-troubled souls of the ones around her. Imagine a girl who refuses to regret where she came from. Imagine a girl who knows right from wrong and knows how hard it is do the right thing when you can only think about how you're supposed to keep your family alive.
Artemis understands priorities. She also understands differences in them. She understands a lot.
Imagine an Artemis that has been under enormous pressure and constantly felt it, like an elephant sitting on her chest. Imagine Artemis sometimes considering collapsing under it all, sometimes considering letting her shoulders take a load off. Imagine Artemis throwing the very idea of it all away seconds after the thought came into her mind. Imagine an Artemis hardened from that pressure, not quite a diamond.
But, then again, she was never quite coal to begin with.
Imagine an Artemis that was never an Arrow but was still sharp as the tip of one. Imagine an Artemis that prided being sharp, one who understood the importance of being sharp in a society that quite possibly overly-values pretty. Imagine an Artemis who understands the importance of being the thorns on the stem rather than just the petals of the rose. Imagine a gymnastics team who taught her that you could be both, that you could be the entire flower.
Imagine an Artemis that gathers her own team, her own weapons, her own lessons and thoughts and hard-way-paths. Imagine her finally growing into the clothing and shoes of her mind and feeling that, for once in her life, she is unashamed and belongs.
Imagine this Artemis, with as much to learn as she has, finding out that she can be both sharp and lovely. Imagine that opening the world up to her.
Imagine an Artemis like herself, but different. Imagine someone wrapping up who she is inside and protecting her too.