AN: 2 chapters uploaded in the first shot, because the cardinal rule of YJ fan fiction is that nobody reviews until they're presented with blood. And a bit of Spitfire.


She's shifting out of shadows, twisting through the rays of light the street lamps are flashing through the windows. She hates the too clean floors, hates the whiteness of the walls. Even in the dark, Gotham Academy reeks of the kind of luxury she's never known. She's not bitter, she reminds herself, passing a trophy case that's glittering in the dark.

She pauses at an unlocked locker, thinking. They still don't have much money. Even with the extra shifts Paula's been working the fact of the matter is that she still earned more stealing and working solo gigs, something that Paula's watchful eye has almost put a stop to entirely. But September is coming up and she'll need money for books soon, and before she can remind herself that Paula would be disappointed the lock slips through her fingers and she pulls the locker open with interest. Even good people need to eat and while Paula may buy food, she's hungry for something different now.

It's summer holidays and as she expected there's nothing of interest other than a few old notebooks inside. She had been hoping for a forgotten novel, maybe even an unreturned textbook. She loves books, loves them so much she can hardly stand it; she wants to read everything that she can get her hands on, a legacy of a childhood deprived of such luxuries when there were gigs to finish and people to ambush. She replaces the lock continues down the hall, the school so silent in the night that she can hear the brush of denim between her thighs.

She turns the handle of a random classroom, not knowing what she will find on the opposite end of the door; she's greeted by more darkness and the silhouette of empty desks. She supposes she's in an English classroom; she can see a collection of novels lining a bookshelf, dioramas of scenes from a play. She approaches the shelf and traces a finger down the spine of a book before shouldering off her back pack, removing it from the shelf and shoving it inside.

There's not much else of interest in the classroom, a few scattered pens on the teacher's desk and a photo frame that she flips downward, so the smiling portrait of father and child is staring at the desk and not her. Things like this still come too easily for her, the sneaking and the stealing. Maybe one day she'll forget everything her father taught her.

Her muscles tense and for a moment her brain doesn't catch the sounds her body knows so well; after half a second she registers the striking of feet against floorboards. As a child she would run from such a noise, but now she stand still, listening as the footsteps draw closer, her back straight and muscles flexed. Her fist tightens around her bow, her right arm reaching for her quiver.

The footsteps grow louder, and she can tell from the accompanying voices that there are at least 4 people, all boys judging by the voices. Probably just some teenagers breaking into a school for fun, like her. But there's something nerve-racking in the edge of their voices, and a distinct crash somewhere deeper in the school sends her heart racing. She crouches until she's behind the desk, her string taught and the arrow trained on the door.

She waits for the voices to fade while she weighs her options. She could slink off now, while whoever the footsteps belong to are distracted. She could be home to Paula in an hour, and leave whatever is happening behind her in favor of her bedroom and an evening cup of tea.

There is another crash, this one much deeper and much more sinister. Born to run. Her father's voice echoes for a moment in her head, her feet shifting awkwardly as she thinks. Not this time.

The desk she's hiding under has a glass cabinet, and she takes measure to check her appearance, tugging her bandana up and above her nose, lowering the hood of her sweat shirt, tucking her long blond hair down her back and picking at her appearance until the only thing identifiable about herself is her steely gaze. Always keep your face covered, her father's voice sounds. She straightens the arrow in her bow, ducking out of her hiding place. This is nothing more than hunting. Nothing more than tracking prey, nothing more than firing arrows to save her own neck.

She stalks the quiet halls but has little trouble finding them; they seem to have left a mess of destruction in their wake, with scattered textbook paper and cracking walls crumbling around her. Somewhere in the back of her mind, it registers that maybe this is more than teenage boys in the dark. When she cracks open the entrance to the gym, her heart nearly falls out of her chest, her breath catching. Because she's seen these boys before, the same ones that graced the 11 o'clock news, the heroes that she silently prayed would come and haul her away from the battering hands of her father. They are here. They are fighting. And worst of all, they are failing.

For the first time in a long time, she is scared. Withdrawing from the crack in the gym door, she clutches her bow to her chest, breathing. She wishes she had just gone home to Paula.

She's kidding herself. She's a kid—a brat, a teenager who commits petty crimes. She shouldn't be here—she's not a professional—she thinks. She listens to the frantic beating of her heart, calculating. Her exit point is in the rafters above the cafeteria. She can turn if she wants and leave.

There's a sound so terrible coming from the gym now, like a wild animal that's been hurt— she knows that sound, she's made people make that sound—and it echoes in the back of her mind like a memory she can't place. It's this sound more than anything that makes her jaw clench, her resolution strong. Artemis doesn't run anymore.

She will have to stay hidden. She knows these boys, knows their affiliations—she may be a petty thief at best, but she knows the Justice League will have more than a few questions if they catch her. Most importantly, where her father is.

At this point she knows Gotham High School as well as her own, her feet guiding her as she pops open a back door and starts the climb up the back end of the bleachers. With each dull thunk of her combat boots against the metal, her own voice hums along. "Don't. Be. Seen. Don't. Be. Seen."

At the top of the stairs is a latch, a door leading to a small metal platform beside the scoreboard. She likes the vantage point, likes that she can aim between the metal bars. She presses the arrow against her bow and waits for the shot.

Everything is moving all too quickly down there; where she is the can feel her anxious breathing ticking against her ribs. She can see them all clearly now, the familiar uniforms and fighting techniques. Robin—she's fought him once— the only times of which she can remember are always marked by occasions of close failure or complete destruction altogether. Aqualad, looking odd without water present. A handsome boy she doesn't know. And the familiar streak of red and yellow—Kid Flash.

She waits for a while, aiming her shot at whatever it is that they're fighting—some sort of robot? But all too soon she gets tired of waiting. Her arms are shaking with the effort to hold steady, the constant changing of battle figures fatiguing her. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe the boys do have it under control.

She's just lowered her arrow and half turned away—she's thinking of nothing but the warmth of her bed after the long walk home—when she hears it again. That strangely animalistic cry of pain again. Her eyes find him before she truly registers what's going on and all she knows is the streak of orange hair flopping down over his mask, the straggled sound of breath leaving lungs.

Her arrow is fired before she can think, not doing much besides distracting Kid Flash's quarry and leaving an crack in the gymnasium floor. For a fraction of a moment she watches the back of his mask as he stares at her arrow, and all at once he has turned to face her.

She's thankful for the shadows, as she always is. She's certain he can't really see her; for a moment his eyes squint as if looking for something familiar in the darkness before he begins to move, fresh air flooding his lungs.

She watches for a half second before deciding to take her leave. As much as she is certain that he didn't see her, she doesn't like that his eyes still found her hiding spot so quickly. She doesn't bother sneaking down the stairs, her quiver rattling with the loss of an arrow, trusting the noise of the battle to cover her. Before she knows it she's broken into a run, her hood flying off her head and letting her long pony tail trail out behind her. She's gasping for breath, the noise of her own shaking lungs blocking out the sound of the fight behind her.

She's at the front doors when she can't take it anymore; ripping the bandana from her face she takes in a massive breath, chancing a glance behind her to make sure she isn't being followed.

She blanches slightly, catching sight of a security camera filming her naked face.

"Fuck."

She runs.


The last time she ran like this, to the full extent of her ability, her mother had been shot. She can feel the same spasms of panic flooding her muscles as she did then, the sudden strain combined with her lack of oxygen sending her joints popping and straining, fighting her as she forces her heels to collide with the pavement.

She slows down once she reaches her building; she's out of breath anyway. Her hands shaking as she fumbles to fit the key to the main door in the lock, her mind still buzzing. It's been more than an hour. An hour and nobody has come for her, an hour of being loose on the streets and nothing has happened other than blisters blossoming on her heels. Maybe nothing will happen at all…

The key fits into the lock and she begins the trek down the hallway. But there's a record of her face on file now. If there was one thing her father always warned her of, it was making sure her face was covered… She takes the stairs two at a time, anxious to get home and into the safety of her apartment.

Her toe catches on the top step and she nearly stumbles into the door-filled hallway. Everything is quiet. Maybe nothing will happen. The boys don't necessarily have League associations, anyway. Maybe her arrow got destroyed in the ensuing battle. Maybe they didn't even bother with the security footage—

She pauses outside her door, her key suspended in front of the handle. A light is on and leaking out under the door.

There's a half second where she doesn't quite process what that means, the metal of her key clashing against the door frame. Then all at once her heart stutters, sending adrenaline through her veins.

Her mother calls her name from behind the door. Before she can move, the handle turns.


"You need to work on your posture."

This is how Green Arrow greets her a few days later. The wind is cool and biting on the roof of her apartment building, but she had refused to meet him anywhere else. If she's going to be suckered into doing this, it's going to be on her terms.

She wouldn't have bothered with any of it if Paula hadn't insisted. Wheelchair or not, she's sure her mother still possesses all the cunning Huntress had; how else could she have convinced members of the Justice League to "train" her? Not that she needed any training. Her father had made sure of that.

Perhaps that's why Green Arrow's jibe about her posture bothers her as much as it does; with a jut of her hips she looks at him over her shoulder, glaring. "My posture is fine."

To her surprise Green Arrow simply smiles; not in a threatening way, but as if he finds her kind of funny. The whole thing bothers her even more. "You need to work on that temper too, young lady." He walks up to her as easily as if he's known her all her life, his arm slinging itself easily around her shoulders. She stiffens, wanting to throw off his grip. "I know, I know." He chuckles, looking down at her and grinning. "You're tough and you want everyone to know it. Now, why don't you tell me why you're here."

Her eyes narrow. "You know why I'm here." She says evenly.

Behind his mask she can see his eyebrows raise, the corner of his moustache quivering. "I know your mother can be very persuasive when she wants to be." He says this very carefully, as if not wanting to offend the absent Paula. "But that doesn't explain why you showed up."

At this point she can't stand the feeling of his arm around her any longer; with a twitch of her shoulder she steps away from him, moving closer to the edge of the building. "I'm here because she wants me to be."

"I'm not buying it." A glance over her shoulder reveals another grin beneath the moustache. She simply glares at him for a moment, trying to read the mirth in his features.

"Well… you guys asked me to be here too. Who am I to disobey the Justice League?" She says slowly, trying and failing to mimic the smooth snarl her mother used to don. Green Arrow shrugs.

"Wouldn't surprise me. I've heard your family has done it before."

As he says it her nose wrinkles, her lips subconsciously pulling back into a feral snarl. "Excuse me?" Green Arrow simply takes a few steps forward until he's beside her again, his hands in his pockets as he surveys the smoggy air unfurling on her city's horizon. For a moment she wonders how much trouble she'll be in if she pushes him off the building's edge. They stand in silence for a long time.

"… Maybe I feel like I owe somebody something." She says after a while. Green Arrow's moustache twitches again. "Sometimes I wonder if I can make up for what they've done. Or what I've done. I don't know."

In answer Green Arrow slings his arm around her shoulder again, and this time she tries not to stiffen.


The fourth time they meet Green Arrow removes his mask.

They're sitting on the top of a building, both coated in a layer of sweat and allowing the evening air to cool them. She's been restringing her bow and nearly drops it when she glances up at him, only to be met with a bare face.

"W-what are you doing?" She asks him, in her nervousness tightening her string too much; there is a loud snap.

He's much older than she expected, but still handsome; his moustache twitches upwards at her surprise, the corners of cerulean eyes crinkling into deep and affectionate crow's feet. "I'm showing you my face." He says calmly, perhaps a little entertained at her shock.

She fixes her eyes on a point in the distant horizon, refusing to look at him again. "Why?" She asks, almost accusingly.

"Because I trust you." He says kindly. She's gotten used to him now, and therefore expects the arm he throws around her; in a second she's fitted neatly in the fold of his elbow, not quite reaching his shoulder. She wishes he would hide his face again. "Listen," He begins, "There's an opportunity for you out there, Artemis— The League is putting together a team of juvenile heroes to handle low-ball missions and serve as a beta squad for more serious threats. We want you to be part of it. But that won't be possible if you can't learn to trust people."

"I do trust people." She says childishly. Green Arrow laughs.

"Do you? Then how come I don't know a single thing about you? Other than the fact that you're more than capable of using that bow in your hands."

She hesitates, wanting desperately to prove him wrong, her lips tensing. She's a private person by nature, a legacy of growing up in a world where any information could be used to manipulate or maim; beyond that, she's not sure there's much to know. She's so used to keeping things to herself that she can't pull forward any information that seems relevant. With a flash of annoyance she shrugs her shoulders until he gets the message to drop his arm.

Green Arrow chuckles. "Well, now that we've identified the problem, how about I go first? Get things flowing?" One of the things she doesn't like about him is that he always seems to be in on some joke she's yet to grow wise to; as if he's about to say a punchline that will catch her off guard. To her relief he replaces his mask. "Where to start… My name is Oliver Queen."

Something stirs in the back of her mind. "… Aren't you a billionaire or something?"

He chuckles. "Or something. Your turn."

"My name is Artemis Crock."

He makes a noise like a error buzzer, grinning down at her. "Nice try, I already knew that."

She doesn't know what else to offer him. It's been a while since anyone has shown genuine interest in her, and questions most people her age have ready on their lips she's struggling to come up with. Favorite color? She doesn't have one. Favorite food? Tea, but that isn't really a food.

She only knows the basics. Artemis Crock. Age: 15. Height: 5 foot 5. Weight: 114 lbs, all muscle. Family Relations: Don't ask. Current Location: Gotham.

Oliver sees her struggle for a moment, his arm shifting to release her, one hand still lingering on her shoulder. "Tough nut to crack, huh?" He says not unkindly. For a moment they both stare at the horizon, watching the sun disappear. When he speaks again his voice sounds very gentle, almost like he is speaking to a daughter. "I know it's hard for you." He says, his palm splayed warmly on her back. "But you're going to have to unlearn a few things; all this self-protection you've been taught won't be doing anyone any favors, especially when there are lives at stake."

She blinks, wishing she had more to say. He keeps talking, seeming to work himself into a stride. "Vulnerability isn't a weakness like you think it is, Artemis. You can't develop skills or relationships without it. I don't like seeing good kids like you get isolated because they're too afraid to put themselves out there." His hand is beginning to move in slow, comforting circles on her back, as if trying to coax something out of her, yet his voice is picking up in persistence. "I can't give a green light until I know you can do this, Artemis. Give me something, anything, so I know you won't be hindrance to The Team. What's the name of your favorite band? Tell me—"

One of his fingers slips from its circle, his thumb skidding over uneven flesh concealed by a narrow strip of cotton tee shirt. She knows he can feel it, maybe even see it through her shirt: she can tell by the way that his voice stops short, his head tilting back to examine the roughly hewn scar poking out of the top of her neckline.

She closes her eyes, not wanting to see the disgust and fear hewn onto his masked features. Instead she drops her head and allows her pony tail to bow along the side of her face, hiding herself from view. "Dad." Is all she says.

It takes him a few seconds longer than it should to recover. "… I'll make the call." He says.


She's standing around what she supposes is her new team. She can feel them sizing her up, examining the muscles she's worked on for so many years that are scarcely hidden beneath the spandex of the new uniform. "Best part of the job." Oliver had grinned at her, tossing the uniform to her a few afternoons after his appearance at her apartment. "The outfit." The introductions are finished and all of sudden, with an intensity that nearly makes her jump, there is a boy sprawled at her feet.

It takes half a second for her to place him with the absence of his mask, but she recognizes his jaw and –oh, god—that awful red hair. He's covered in freckles, more than she expected. There's a speared line of sunblock on his nose and if she wasn't trying to save face she would have laughed.

Kid Flash gets to his feet and suddenly he's berating her, and even if she wants to examine his bare chest more closely she resists, her eyes glaring out of slightly lopsided mask holes. Ducking around Red Arrow—who incidentally, she isn't too fond of either—she speaks to him directly. "Whatever, Baywatch." She sneers with a glance at his beach shorts, feeling immense pleasure at the way his ears redden. "I'm here to stay."

She can hear the conversation flowing around her, but she and Kid Flash only have eyes for each other. It's been a while since she's felt this much dislike for someone so quickly; she feels nothing but contempt for his freckles, his ginger hair, the apple green of his eyes. She looks away, her lips rolling into a straight line, wishing she hadn't bothered firing the arrow that saved his life.

She catches up with what Red Arrow is saying and somehow finds herself up to speed; despite everything, she knows the League of Shadows when she sees it. "Like you know anything about the Shadows." She hears Kid Flash mutter behind her.

It takes one look to shut him up, half a second of green on grey before he frowns, his muscled arms flying out in frustration. "Who are you?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She sneers back.


The distorted mask slips off and for a moment her heart turns cold.

Jade.

It's been nearly five years but she can still see her—the features of a teenage girl warped by the passing of time, an assassin's lifestyle turning them gaunt and hard over the years. She shares Artemis' steely grey eyes and milky olive skin, but her hair is different than it was before; the once shining locks have turned dull and brittle. Jade's lips curl into a cunning smile, somehow more terrifying than the mask.

"Hello Baby Girl. It's been a while."

Her voice sounds the same—maybe darker, crisper—but despite her words there is no mark of recognition, not softness in her eyes. She tightens her grip on her arrow, trying not to look as shocked as she feels. "Jade."

Jade cocks a hip casually, dropping her chin so as to observe her better. "So this is what became of you. Can't say I'm surprised; although I must say I'm a little disappointed that you didn't amount to anything more than a sidekick… Dad won't be pleased..."

Her fingers tighten. "Shut up."

Jade lets out a cold laugh. "Oh dear, I see you've still got the family temper." She stops laughing as Artemis takes aim, her arrow squared directly at her heart. "Now, now, Sister. What are you planning to do? Take me in? Let your new friends interrogate me? I wonder… Is your new position secure enough to survive them learning everything I know?" A spasm of fear sounds in her stomach and it's enough to make Jade smile, her lips stretch across grossly pointed teeth smudged with lipstick. "Hmmm. I thought not. Lower your bow, Little Sister."

The command works on her as easily as it would have all those years ago; at once her arms are down and the bow string is limp. She knows she won't be able to do it. Even if it wasn't risking her position with The Team… She could never turn her back on her family. Not entirely, at least.

"Go." She whispers, staring angrily at the ground. Jade drops something behind her, coating them with fog. Before Artemis can move she feels plump lips pressing against her forehead, the familiar smell of sweet grass and stale liquor brushing against her cheeks before footsteps fade into the night.


Before she can so much as lower her arrow he's in front of her, so close now that she can feel his breath against her face as he tightens his jaw, snarling. "I'm warning you." Red Arrow's voice is low and dangerous; despite herself she can feel a warm pooling sensation in the pit of her stomach, a small dribble of excitement bubbling inside her. "…Don't hurt my friends." He says quietly.

The whole thing is dizzying and exciting; a muscle jumps in his jaw, the smooth skin of his neck stretching as he lowers his chin, glowering at her. She's young but she's seen this look on a man before; it's the kind of look her father's thugs used to send her, both an attempt at seduction and an invitation for a challenge—the kind of looks she always falls for, in her desperation to prove herself to be just as dangerous and dominant as every man who has crossed her path seems to be entitled to be.

But Red Arrow is trying too hard to be intimidating, with his mused hair and narrowed eyes that dart around too much behind the mask to really be much of a threat—not to her, at least. She's been through this kind of act before and at this point the game is getting a little tiresome; he's got her cornered in a deserted back alley, trying to stand tall but not quite wanting to touch her, being careful to respect boundaries and not cross the two inch threshold between them. He's older than her, much older, but all she can think is that he has a lot to learn.

He lets out a long exhale through his nose that ruffles the hair around her face, and another rush of warmth floods her stomach. She can't resist the invitation to mess with him.

He's becoming uncomfortable now, the jumping muscle settling from his jaw. He's leaning over her, trying to get her to take a step back, to wince, anything to help him leave this conversation feeling like more of a man. Before he can get any ideas she straightens herself up to her full height, her breasts thrust out and almost skimming against his chest. "I don't need a warning, Speedy." She hisses his old name at him, her voice so malicious and so mocking that she swears she can see his cheeks redden. "And in case you haven't noticed, they're my friends too."

For a moment they simply glare at each other, her neck beginning to strain with the effort of looking up. Then at once he snorts, knocking past her. "We'll see about that."

She keeps her back straight and watches him over her shoulder until he's out of sight.


AN: This whole story originally began as just a series of one shots revolving around interesting moments with Artemis in season 1, but the more I wrote the more I fell in love with her character. Please read and review!