She hated when she heard all the stories the civilians told. They made everything sound so heroic, so poetic. A kind of beautiful that made her sick.
"And then Superman swooped in, it was so cool, and he beat up the bad guys and saved the day!"
Don't gag, don't gag, don't lose your lunch he's just a kid. He doesn't know any better. Because when she heard all those stories, told in giddy voices by bright eyed people, all she could think was the hall of memoires, the cloying smell of blood and rot, the screams, and the pain. Swallowing hard she slipped out the back door of the restaurant, sliding down the alley wall she settled her head between her knees trying to still her breathing. Trying to dislodge the shouts, the ringing of bullets and orders from her mind.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. She squeezed her eyes shut trying to focus on the breath of the city. The rumble of the cars on the broken streets, the shouts of people from windows and sidewalks, the hum of machinery, the hiss of steam from vents, the running of water in the gutters. Slowly she opened her eyes, letting them refocus on the dirty ground, recognizing the khaki of clothing. Khaki not green. Blinking the afterimages of injury from her eyes she let her head raise.
"You're ok Artemis." With an effort that felt more herculean than it should have she stood. Steadying herself against the wall for another second she took a deep, full breath. "You're ok."
"No little girl, you're not. Now hand over your valuables before I have to use this." the feel of cold steel against her throat sent Artemis into a state of blank survival. It only took 30 seconds.
She didn't kill him. It was a miracle she didn't, a miracle she had reached for her own knives instead of his neck (because daddy dearest required perfection in everything), a miracle he hadn't scared her enough after her panic attack to warrant the response that was second nature to her(" If they get behind you, kill them."). When the police come, crooked cops as bent as the day is long, all she does is mouth the name her daddy gave to her so long ago, 'the tigress' and suddenly there are no more questions. The money she palms them seals their lips. Blood money, literally as her fingers have left scarlet trails on the bills. There would be no more inquiries.
She goes back to work the next day. She spends more time in the hall of memories as she's named it. The walls are splattered with phantom splashes of crimson, flames lick up the sides of her mind, she can smell charred flesh and feel the dead weight of injured civilians on her back. Sometimes in the middle of the night she hears the echoes of sobs from one half of the hall, retching from the other.
"yeah, saving the day. So cool" Artemis muttered, glancing at the bloody razor in the showers. She turned intent on seeking out M'gann to see if she was ok.