AN: So Wally's other reason for acting so dumb will be revealed…in the next chapter. In the meantime, here's a hint: the reason is based off of something that happened in the second half of Season 1.
Higher T, just to be on the safe side
Disclaimer: Own? Me? Nope.
Chapter 8
The clock was broken.
That was the only thought running through my mind at the end of the day. I should have been focusing on the pre-calculus lesson, but I couldn't because the bell had to ring right then but it wouldn't because the damn clock was broken. The hands hadn't moved, not even the tiniest bit, and they had to because I needed to get out of there—
The ear-splitting shriek of the bell cut through the school, and I grabbed my stuff and bolted, by-passing my locker and going straight to the bathroom.
Please, please, please, please, please tell me I'm wrong.
No blood. Not a drop.
I sat down heavily and buried my head in my hands, setting my jaw tightly to keep my cool.
I was late. Three days late. Maybe that wasn't a big deal for most girls, but I'd been consistent since the very first time I got it. I'd never been late, never been early. Now, it was wrong, off-balance, and that could only mean…
"You're not pregnant," I whispered, so quietly that even I could barely hear it. "Don't think like that, Artemis. You are not going to have Terror's child. You're not. Just breathe, girl. Breathe."
Managing to control myself, I emerged from the stall and went through my typical routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing wrong. Nothing at all.
It was only when I was home, in the safety of my room, that I let myself cry, the tears snaking down my cheeks. This couldn't be happening; I was just blowing everything out of proportion because I wasn't pregnant, I couldn't be, I just couldn't.
But I could. Because it only took one time to get pregnant, even if that one time was awful and painful and forced and with a complete monster.
Taking a deep breath, I decided to forget the situation by turning to my homework. The harder I tried to care, though, the less I could because it was so irrelevant, so unnecessary; what happened during Germany's reconstruction or the velocity of a ball rolling down a hill or the balancing of a chemical equation meant nothing, not when there was a chance of me becoming a mother.
Shoving half-written assignments aside, I reached into my drawer and pulled out my biology notes from the first semester. After a frantic search, I found the unit on embryology. I stared at the progression of the zygote to a full-fledged fetus. That could be happening inside of me.
With trembling hands, I shoved the notes back into their rightful place and crawled into bed, hugging the pillow tightly to my chest. More tears come, angrier than before, stronger than before, and I let the soft fabric muffle my sobs. I was scared. Terrified. And I didn't know what to do.
Almost subconsciously, I found myself reaching for my communicator, but before I could radio for Cam, I stopped myself. He had to contact me; it was the only way to make absolutely certain that no one figured out what we were doing.
I glanced at the clock. Five-thirty. Five more hours, max, until he would call.
Pull yourself together. You need to pull yourself together.
So I did, pretending everything was just fine even though that was the farthest thing from the truth. It was only after I'd said good-night to Mom and heard my communicator crackling that I let myself break.
"Cam?"
"The one and only."
"I'm late."
"For a very important date?"
"This is serious!" It was part snarl, part growl, part whimper. "I haven't gotten my period."
"Jesus. How late?"
"Three days."
"That's it?"
"What do you mean, that's it? I've never been late before!"
"Sorry." His voice was gentle. "It's just, I mean, isn't that whole…cycle thingy influenced by lots of things?"
"What?"
"Like if you're stressed out, doesn't that screw it up?"
"I don't know!"
"Maybe it's not time to panic—"
"I might be pregnant with my rapist's child; I think now is the perfect time to panic!" I was practically hyperventilating, sputtering incoherent nonsense about embryology and cells and what could be.
"Artemis, Artemis, please, calm down. It'll be alright, okay? I swear to you things will work out. Artemis, please, are you listening? Forget it—I'm coming over."
"No!" I took a gulp of air and swallowed hard. "You can't. The computer will announce your departure."
"But—"
"Just talk to me. Please."
"Okay." There was a beat of silence. "Look, I'm, I'm not too sure what I should say, but I'm telling you that you're not pregnant. You are not carrying Terror's child, you are not going to become a mother at sixteen. You're not, okay? But if—and this is a huge if, okay, never, ever forget that—if you are pregnant, you…you don't have to have the baby. No one would judge you."
And I knew he was right. Right now, if I was pregnant, there was a morula. A solid ball of cells. Nothing even close to a human. I wasn't killing anything, destroying anything, just getting rid of a little ball of cells.
But I knew that the little ball of cells would become more than that. Those cells would differentiate, become different from my own. The ball would change, grow, become humanoid. It would get a heart, a heartbeat. It would have a brain, and it would think and dream. It would become a little person, a baby, my baby. And with that baby came lullabies and bedtime stories and hugs and kisses and I love you Mom's.
"I don't think I could have an abortion," I whispered.
"Then you wouldn't get one. This is your life. Whatever you choose, I'll support you. We'll all support you."
"We…" And the realization that my rape would be revealed hit me full-forced. Everyone—the Team, Mom, Green Arrow, the League—they'd all know. I couldn't deal with that; the sheer onslaught of their reactions, their pain, would be too much.
"Artemis? Artemis? Please, answer."
"I'm fine, Cam," I managed. "I'm really, really fine."
"No, you're not. I think I should—"
"You can't." It hurt to say because I did want him to come over, to hold me and tell me everything was going to work out. But that couldn't happen.
"Then what can I do?" The helplessness in his voice was impossible to miss.
"Just talk to me."
He obliged, saying anything that came to mind—stupid jokes, random stories, more things we'd do if we ran the world. And it worked, because I landed in Wonderland. For some reason, it was snowing, thick and fluffy, and everyone was there, and we spent the whole time playing, building forts and having snowball fights and creating a snowman village. We were acting like kids.
And when I woke up, I realized that I was still a kid. I wasn't ready to be a mom, not anytime soon. Maybe…maybe getting an abortion wasn't out of the question. My baby's soul wouldn't die (because God wouldn't let it, he wouldn't), it would just go to another woman. And there would still be lullabies and bedtime stories and hugs and kisses and I love you Mom's, they just wouldn't involve me; they'd involve a woman who was ready for this baby, who deserved this baby.
My stomach throbbed as I struggled between my two options, and the pain only intensified when I sat down for AP Euro. I gritted my teeth, telling myself that the sudden C I had in this class was the thing I had to worry about. As though to prove the statement wrong, another wave of agony washed over me.
I do not need this right now, I thought bitterly. Halfway through class, though, the ebb-and-flow of the pain suddenly seemed familiar, and I realized that it might be exactly what I needed.
The second the bell rang, I was out the door and in the bathroom.
Please, please, please.
Blood. A splash of red on white.
Before I could control myself, I let out a laugh, shaky and almost disbelieving and ecstatic and relieved. The typical chatter in the girl's room ceased, and I clamped my hand on my mouth to keep quiet. Once I was sure everyone was gone, I resumed laughing, unconcerned with how crazy that was. I didn't have to choose, didn't have to justify, didn't have to worry.
