A/N: I didn't want to extend this out so long, but hey, if I have an idea, I have an idea. So here's another chapter of my favorite Artemis fic that I've written to date.

Disclaimer: I do not own Young Justice or any associated characters.

It Could Always Be Worse

It wasn't what someone wanted to hear. It was the equivalent of "Good enough" when you realize you could be so much better and yet you aren't, you're worthless, you're angry-

Artemis knew this. Still, she coped.

She lived with being "good enough". She got the job done, went home, and tried to sleep it off and forget the whole thing happened. Artemis laid there at night and hoped for God's sake that she could pay off these sins.

That night, she laid on her back, staring up at the ceiling and reveling in the fact that it could always be worse.

Her hair spilled out around her, still dripping wet and soaking pillow and mattress alike; some loose strands of gold billowed off the bed even. Her young face, merely fourteen, was laden with exhaustion and age, wisdom far beyond her years, and not the good kind. And those tired eyes fell shut as she mentally muttered to herself that it could always be worse.

And actually, it was better now. The days were getting better. Her class had gotten pet frogs, which made her smile more often as she watched them swim around their little tank. Nights weren't as bad either: her father no longer hit her for her mistakes or kicked her while she was down. The worst of the bruises were going away. It was getting better.

So yeah, it could always be worse. She wore a faux smile as the night swept around her, warm like the upcoming summer.

Summer brought dread, the thought of spending every second in his company. He'd always be hanging around, she'd be training all day. He'd come home caked with another man's blood, she's be cleaning it up. He'd be there screaming and shouting, she'd try not to take it personally.

It still hurt nonetheless. All of the screaming after years and years finally added up to something. Artemis had come to hate herself. She was only "good enough" and even after putting thousands of hours of effort in, she wasn't getting much better. And she wasn't dumb either, she was passing in school pretty well, but nowhere near top of the class and nothing stuck longer than it took to pass the test.

That summer breeze danced into the room and found her eyes stinging with tears. Her lips were pursed.

Good enough was all she'd ever be. She could get a job done and go home and get no praise and minimal criticism and no one would care much beyond that because the job was done and no one had to care as long as someone else was dead and the problem was taken care of, so what would it matter if someone simply said "Good job" without the taste of sarcasm on their tongue or the twang of anger in their voice? Artemis was good enough. Her shots were close enough. Her grades were good enough. Her life was good enough.

Good enough. She wanted more.

Artemis didn't dream of a picket fence and a golden retriever. Artemis dreamed of a nicer apartment with painted walls and a working tv. She dreamed of a dish washer that actually worked and a clean sink. She dreamed of a nice big bedroom with airy windows, lots of light, and a big enough bed for a pitbull to lay at the bottom with her. She dreamed of mismatched furniture that still looked alright. And that was all she wanted. And her only one true request: to feel good again.

Her future, as she wanted it to be, came with no strings attached. As far as she was concerned, she could work two jobs to make rent and get food and maybe have a nice roommate and be perfectly content on her own with just a dog as her true company. She didn't dream of men- she dreamt of living a life away from her father, on her own, with the freedom and independence to do whatever the hell she wanted whenever the hell she wanted.

Artemis had dreams, just like any other girl in the world.

But right in this moment, she was scraping through the days with whatever food the emergency supply money could buy and trying not to burn her meals too badly. She ate everything she could to keep her strength up, even the nastiest burnt stuff at the bottom of the pan. Last week she was sick, and this week she wanted to make up for last week.

Her dad hadn't been around for about a month and it was getting pretty bad. The neighbors had been at her on where he was and when he was getting back and what has happened to her mother and why wasn't anyone staying with her. The usual responses: business trip, soon, grandmother's sick, and because she was fine on her own.

And now the days were just going by slowly and painfully. She ate the burned scraps of food, hoped for her dad to show up with whatever paycheck Ra's would give him, and maybe take her bow out to the park the next day to get some fresh meat. Everything was a slow-motion blur. Hunger pangs during the day, sickly taste in her mouth at night, and just the emptiness of the house whenever she tried to sleep at night.

"It could always be worse," she whispered to herself as tears stained her cheeks. "It could always be worse."

Because she had enough food for another week maybe and it wasn't like she needed clothing or water. And the bills could wait, maybe, hopefully. Because she wasn't on the streets where she would have no money, no food, and no shelter. On the street, there would be no warm bed, no television at all, and no radio. She would have dirty clothes and worn out shoes and her hair would be a complete mess.

It could always be worse.

She got by. She had it good enough. She managed. Artemis was a trooper if nothing else, a good little soldier. She obeyed and was taken care of decently as payment. Food, water, shelter, and wasn't that all anyone ever needed?

And still she dreamed: an apartment of mismatched furniture, a good tv, a big bed with a pitbull, and freedom. In her dreams, freedom tasted like fresh air rolling off of hillsides with flowers and shrubs and lavender, the best things in the world, freedom, freedom!-

And yet she woke up to Gotham's smoky, polluted air, into a crummy apartment with hideously mismatched furniture and broken lamps and a broken tv and only a haunting Cheshire cat as her companion.

Because it could always be better, too.

A/N: I'm extending this by four more chapters beyond this one. Leave a review, let me know what you think, and I'll update soon. Thanks for reading.

~Sky