AN: Another chapter up and running! Enjoy the update.
She runs, hard and fast and without any real direction; in the back of her mind she hardly registers shoulders buffeting against hers and distant half-shouts of people she's colliding with. She doesn't feel like herself, or maybe she's so used to feeling nothing that feeling something is strange—alien, even, to be suddenly aware of the tightness in the pit of her stomach, the anger throbbing in her mind. Another person swears as she passes, but she can't hear them— she tastes the ragged breaths she's drawing in and feels her lungs ache, phlegm coating her throat and forcing her to spit.
When was the last time she ran like this? Pushing herself to the limit, determined to outrun any possibilities that might be chasing her...
She used to run more. Like this, hard like this. Why— Why doesn't she run like this anymore?
... Has she changed, without noticing?
She begins to lose track of the blocks, of how far she's moved; as the adrenaline floods through her the number of steps she's mentally tracking wavers and fades, becoming nothing more than the slapping sound of her boots on the pavement. She cuts down an alley, out of breath and finally slowing to a stuttering jog that sends the scarred muscles in her thigh twitching in a way they haven't in a while.
Nobody's coming after her now. She's too far.
The heel of her boot skids, her thigh now aching in a way that forces her to stop; her lungs feel like they're about to burst, her throat raw as she tries to breathe. The air in the alley is stale, stinking of something rotten; she can sense mice scattering out of sight around the garbage cans, hidden in the dusk settling around her.
Nobody is coming.
She makes a noise, halfway between a groan and something else as she doubles over, hands braced on her knees. Her phlegm is choking her and she spits again, watching as her saliva drips cleanly onto the stained pavement; her adrenaline won't let her be still the way her leg is begging her to, her entire body aching to get moving again.
Keep moving, keep moving.
Her heart beats, loud and unfailingly alive in a way she's not used to.
Breathe.
The knuckles on her right hand are stained with Owen's blood, the skin beneath it tender and split in places. It looks strangely stretched around the bend of her knee, warbled and blistered as if it doesn't belong to her.
... She's missed this, even if she can't figure out what this is; after a long moment she straightens, muscles shaking and diaphragm quaking as she struggles to limp onwards, struggles to keep going. It reminds her of the old days, before Wally, before the Team, before Paula even; getting into trouble and having to bail herself out, outrunning cops and winning whatever fight she's gotten herself into. This kind of rush is different than anything she's tasted on the Team— it's the best kind of high: the mixture of adrenaline and satisfaction, an intoxicating combination of the thrill of the fight and the length of the run. It seems to flow through her veins like morphine, drugging her, making everything hazy yet vivid.
... Why did she stop doing this again?
Her phone vibrates once more but she ignores it, instead giving in to the pain in her leg; inhaling again she reaches out a hand to clutch at the brick-backed wall of the building she's behind, fingers digging hard into the edges of the grout as she peels her sleeping shorts up her thigh, curious.
... The scar's faded now, after all these months. For a while after Metropolis she never thought it would; perhaps it's a trick of the light, but even as she runs her forefinger over it she knows the bullet sized fissure is less raised, although still stark white against her Vietnamese skin. But Black Canary had been right, warning her not to push herself too quickly... The wound never did heal quite right.
A lot about her never did.
(But a scar is stronger than normal flesh— having quite a few of them she should know. She knows that when you are broken it hurts. But when the sinews and flesh of a wound stitch back together they do so with the intention of never being hurt that way again. That moment of pain is the moment healing begins; the moment the fibers of your being begin to sew together once more that is the inkling of healing, of progress, of—)
Her adrenaline is beginning to leak out of her system, and with the fading of its sharpness she's slapped with a dull realization: she shouldn't have done this. Going after a civilian, even an asshole like Owen, and attacking him... If the League ever finds out she knows she'll be in trouble.
But it needed to be done.
She exhales, testing her weight on her leg again; although the muscles along her thigh seem to quiver slightly she stands, finally releasing the wall. She still doesn't know why she did it, what good it was supposed to do. Owen had already gotten to Zatanna, nothing she just did will fix that, but— But it was the right thing to do, she knows it was. It's what you're supposed to do when someone hurts a person you care about... You're supposed to protect them, to avenge the hurt they had to bear. Coming after Owen had been the only way to let him know that he couldn't get away with treating her like that, that him throwing a few punches at the girl who for these last few months has been like a sister to—
Jade. Her sister.
... Jade had done something like this once.
It takes a few seconds, standing there and breathing raggedly, for the full memory to come back: She's eight. Maybe nine? And there's a boy... The son of one of her father's friends. She narrows her eyes at nothing, thinking hard, trying to find something, anything to cling to; a name, she can't remember his name...
She exhales hard, willing herself to focus, but the name still remains long gone, something just beyond her memory that she can't place. But... But there are other things. A tuft of boyish blonde hair. Skin so pale it could be blue... The feeling of too-cold lips pressing nervously against hers, ignoring her hands as she had tried to shove him off...
It had been kid stuff. A boyish claim on a first kiss she hadn't been willing to give up.
... God.
It had been stupid. And she had cried after, the way a little girl could only cry when they lose that last bit of pathetic innocence she had been trying to preserve in the backwards world she was living in. Her father had laughed and told her to be grateful he hadn't wanted anything else... And Paula had told her she was going to be a heart breaker.
But Jade... Jade had gone after him. Tracked him down, roughed him up. She remembers her father yelling after, remembers the throwing of furniture and talks of the breaking of unwritten rules. There's was screaming, and beatings and... And other things that she doesn't want to remember. But Jade had seen her crying, and she had done what she needed to do.
... Did she learn this from Jade? This... Weird sense of justice?
She's no longer out of breath, cheeks still flushed as she mulls the thought over... She can't remember the last time she thought about her sister.
For some reason the smell in the alley grows worse, the stink growing so sour that suddenly she can hardly breathe. Her legs scream out when she forces them to move again, heels pounding loudly into the pavement as she breaks into a sprint.
The high works its way out of her slowly as she climbs the stairs of the Gotham apartment, the sirens outside wailing and breaking the silence.
The thought of her sister seems to follow her home, taking the stairs two at a time to match her pace; how many years has it been since Jade last walked these steps? How long has it been since she called the apartment home?
Why couldn't she leave her in the back alley where she belongs?
Her legs continue to ache, twitching and angry with her as she trips on her usual step; somehow even the pain in her toes can't numb her mind... When was the last time she saw Jade alive? It takes her too long to retrace the last few months on her fingers, too long to tally the absence. Athens. It had been Athens, the first time, when the two of them had been trying to fight to the death.
The last time she saw her sister she had been trying to kill her.
Since then she's only heard from her through Roy who... Has also been gone, she's now realizing, since before she went to Quarac. What had he told her the last time? That Jade had left all those years ago to protect her?
Where are the two of them now?
... Are they safe?
Her mind is too exhausted to process her thoughts, the questions she wants answers to seeming to rise inside her skull and float there, unsupported.
The night peels off her in layers, starting with the blood coating her knuckles; she stands naked in the shower for a long time, watching as droplets of water coil down her shoulders, finding familiar patterns over the arcing muscles of her arms, finally curling off her fingers in small delicate waves. The water stains copper as it disappears down the drain.
... She expected it to feel better, hitting Owen.
Or at least that the satisfied feeling would last longer; or maybe it's still there, hidden inside her—some kind of sickness that hasn't hit her yet. Is that what she thinks of feelings now? As a disease? Is that as screwed up as she thinks it is?
(For the first time in the longest time she wishes she could talk to her sister.)
The blood disappears but Jade lingers; more than ever in the last few months she can sense her memory here, as if on the other side of the shower curtain she's lurking, waiting to be noticed.
… She had thought it would feel better, hitting Owen. It had seemed like a good idea—and it was, right? He had hit Zatanna, so she had hit him. It was a good idea. She's beginning to doubt herself, beginning to question her similarities to her sister, her mind trying to think itself in circles yet too exhausted to do anything other than bombard her with unanswerable questions.
... It's been so long since she thought of her. After what happened in Athens she had felt so lost, so... So gone, as if she no longer existed. Or maybe she's simply been wishing she didn't.
But she had thought of her tonight. Thought of old memories, the old Jade. Thought about the older sister who had once done everything in her power to protect her...
Why is that she always thinks of her when she's at her worst?
She can feel her stomach churning uncomfortably, the too-hot water scalding her skin as she scrubs soap into her hands yet again, double checking that all the crimson underneath her nails is coming clean. She knows that what Roy told her, between the spaces of his words, is true. Jade had left all those years ago to try to bait Lawrence away. Jade had left in some twisted way to try to save her...
But it hadn't worked.
Her muscles are beginning to ache, the old scar on her neck feeling oddly tight as she tilts her head more surely under the water. She's still not used to washing such short hair, not used to the way it sticks to her cheeks, the ends of it water logged and sending thick lines of water rolling off her in unpredictable places.
... Jade had left, and found her way back. But the last time she saw her... She had told her she wanted her dead.
She feels hollowed out by her own exhaustion, standing there under the water, watching beads of moisture roll from her chin down her clavicle before disappearing under the swell of her breasts. Jade had left to try to save her, had opened up a debt she's been too stupid and too steeped in her own denial to realize even existed.
... But what is she supposed to do, anyway? How to you repay someone for something you never asked for?
Is she supposed to go after her? Find her? Drag her back home?
... No. She can't. Jade isn't Jade now. The Cheshire Cat isn't her sister.
She can't stand here thinking about this anymore; the water is beginning to run cold—well, not cold. But not hot enough for her taste. She leaves her blood stained clothes in a rumpled pile in the corner of the bathroom, instead taking her mother's bathrobe off the hook on the back of the door.
As if it knows she's been thinking about her sister the outline of Jade's old twin bed seems to draw her eyes as she enters her bedroom, accusing and blaringly loud as she loops the knot of Paula's bathrobe around her waist. As the door shuts behind her she registers the sound of blankets rumpling, and although the room is too dark to see she can imagine Zatanna raising her head from beneath her blankets, voice cracking and exhausted across the room. "Artemis?"
"Hey." Her own voice sounds hoarse as she keeps her back to the other girl, crossing the room to her dresser.
"Hi." There's a pause where the other girl seems to listen hard to the sound of her drawers opening. "... I wasn't sure if you were coming back."
Even though it's so dark in the room she still hesitates after extracting an old tee shirt and some ragged sweats. "Well, I'm here." She says plainly. She keeps her back to the other girl as she dresses, water dribbling off her hair and clinging to her shoulders, making the cotton of her clothes stick to her skin.
For a moment it's too intimate for her taste, being naked in the dark; she can sense Zatanna trying to find her, squinting and trying to read her silences. She finds she can't think of much to say, thankful for the distraction of dressing to avoid the swirl of annoyance and anger still burning in the pit of her stomach.
Apparently the awkward silence is too much for Zatanna to handle; there's the shift of bedsprings as the other girl rolls onto her back, gathering the courage to speak. "I didn't know if I should stay, or... Move to the other bed?" She says awkwardly, listening as the floorboard squeaks as she crosses the room to hang her mother's damp robe on the back of her door. "Your Mom said I could but... You know. It's your sister's bed."
She feels a pang run through her stomach; Jade seems to scream louder than ever in the back of her mind, a reminder that there's still unfinished business between them. For a half moment her head swings to where she knows the matching twin bed is shoved against the wall, the Alice in Wonderland poster above it invisible yet still mocking in the darkness.
She swallows down some feeling she doesn't understand and looks away. "... Move over." She says firmly.
"What?"
It takes several seconds for Zatanna to realize she's being serious; by the time she reaches the edge of her bed it only just occurs to the other girl to move. "Tomorrow I'm stripping the sheets and getting all of her old stuff out of here." She mutters, settling into the warm spot on the mattress that the other girl's just vacated. Her wet hair presses hard into the side of her cheek as she flattens herself against her pillow, keeping her back firmly turned away from Zatanna. "After that... I don't know. It can be your bed, if you ever want to stay somewhere other than the Cave."
"Artemis?"
"Go to sleep." She says, yanking her sheets over herself.
There's another stunned silence where she can sense the other girl's bewilderment; for several long seconds she can feel Zatanna's gaze boring into the back of her head. "... Did something happen?"
She doesn't say anything, but accidentally lets an annoyed breath out before she can stop it; the other girl doesn't buy her poor act of pretending to be instantly asleep, and she can feel the mattress beneath both of them quake as she rolls closer to her. "... I'm sorry, okay?" She whispers. "For last night and... And dumping all this on you. You can kick me out, you know."
She swallows, hating it when the other girl reaches out to touch her on the shoulder. "You're staying." She says fiercely, rolling onto her back to glare at the other girl. You're staying because I need to protect you. "... But if you ever do anything this stupid ever again—"
"You'll kill me. I get it."
She scowls, but the other girl doesn't see it in the darkness; the mattress quakes and Zatanna rolls to face the wall.
July begins to roll by, the days long and hot in a way that makes her appreciate her too-short hair.
The next morning she rises early, ignoring the way Zatanna's legs have tangled with hers in the night; she strips the sheets from her sister's old bed and removes old sweaters from the closet, emptying all Jade's belongings and books from the bedside table into a box she found in the hallway closet.
The Cheshire Cat seems to watch accusingly as all this happens, but soon he and the box containing Jade are shoved unceremoniously underneath her own bed.
She never wants to think of her sister ever again.
Her and Zatanna don't speak of the night before, or of July 4th at all. They spend several days being too polite too each other until finally they loosen into their usual banter. Zatanna brings her own sheets and makes her bed, and soon the empty spaces on her book shelf are filled with magazines and perfume bottles rather than the holes in her life that Jade left. Paula says nothing of the new arrangement, although she suspects that the older woman likes the apartment so full; one day she catches her mother mumbling an old Vietnamese tune under her breath, smiling as she brews tea for three.
Once again things seem slow around the Cave, as if the usual suspects are also being lulled into relaxation by the warm weather as much as they are; in the weeks that follow after the fourth of July they're only called out once or twice to low-ball missions that don't really amount to much other than sitting around in silence.
For once, however, the familiar itch for action seems to keep itself at bay, and after the tedium of all night missions like these they're all much more content than usual to spend the day dozing on the beach; in fact, they all seem to gather there regardless of what the day has in store for them. Gradually her skin, already dark from Quarac, seems to settle into a deep caramel hue from laying around in lounge chairs with Zatanna, a faint burst of freckles erupting on her arms that she knows will disappear when the leaves fall in the autumn.
When the day fades into evening they tend to split off from each other; Kaldur and Tula seem to lounge in the water long after sundown, and Dick and Zatanna will retire into the cozier parts of the Cave to argue. On the few nights they don't return to Paula for dinner she'll sit on the sand and read until the darkness is so heavy she can't see the words on the pages.
Although it's still difficult for both of them it is on these nights that Wally finds her; he always seems to catch her just as she returns to the kitchen to make a cup of tea, or just as she curls into a chair in the common room. At first these meetings are a bit too-brief, just a few minutes of light conversation, but eventually they begin to turn into hour long affairs filled with laughter and talks about nothing that leave her feeling lighter, almost happy.
Her mouth is still aching from smiling as the two of them disappear behind their cups— he's been telling her an old story she's heard before about his Aunt Iris, but she doesn't tell him that; she likes the way he talks about the unknown woman, the way his eyes crinkle with laughter and his voice seems warmer, happier than normal. She's had the foresight to make tea for two this evening, and by the time Wally had made one of his appearances she'd gotten his prepared the way he likes it. She watches for a long moment as he swallows, finally lowering his cup to press against the arm of the couch they're occupying opposite ends of. "... You heard anything else from Meg?"
She feels the smile she's wearing waver. "Not really. I don't even know if Connor got there okay. You?"
Wally shrugs, stretching out a leg towards her; he's so tall the tips of his toes can almost touch her bare ankle. "Nothing. I tried calling, but... Well, you know. Service is spotty."
She nods, not sure how he knows this; for a moment she wonders if she told him this after the call with M'gann, or if he perhaps tried to call her while she was gone. She supposes knowing the answer won't help things. "If something was wrong we'd know." She say reasonably, disappearing behind her cup again.
It's his turn to nod, watching her sip her tea; she can feel him memorizing parts of her, the look so accidentally intense that she's suddenly aware of every atom in her body, from the skin along her hips being cut into by her denim shorts to the straps of her tank top sitting precariously, about to slip down her shoulder.
She clears her throat and Wally blinks, the corners of his mouth quirking. "Your hair is getting longer." He says vaguely.
As he says it she becomes aware of the hair behind her ear, of the way it brushes the middle of her neck; she suspects in a month's time she'll finally be able to pull it back into a pony tail. Rather than say anything to this she smiles, changing the subject.
She turns on her heel, the muscles in her shoulders popping as she reaches for her quiver; all around her the quiet of the Star City air is broken by the sound of knuckles colliding with bone, skin slapping against skin as punches are thrown, the alarm of a nearby bank sounding shrilly and sending her ears aching—
Her abdomen aches as she twists, marking her quarry just as he breaks into a run, intent on taking her mentor by surprise; her gaze finds Oliver's familiar eyes under his mask for a fraction of a second as she thumbs her arrow tips. "Down!" She snarls, notching her arrow against her finger and aiming a mere inch over his shoulder.
His eyes widen, and she's sure that for a second he's convinced she's aiming for him; despite this he doesn't hesitate, blind trust leading him on as he reacts at the last possible second, palms slapping against the pavement just as she releases— she has enough time to register the sound of metal slicing through the air and the explosive smog that signals she's found her target before an unfamiliar hand seizes a fistful of her hair, dragging her backwards by the scalp.
She's thrown off balance by someone much larger than her; she can sense the burly fist flying towards her jaw before it comes and with a guttural noise in the back of her throat she rocks out of the way, ankle rolling. Ignoring the pain that shoots up her calve she swings her bow around, slamming her quarry in the middle of his back, her opposite leg kicking out to find his diaphragm.
She watches as his body crumbles, the muscles underneath his ragged black clothes going slack; before she can finish the job properly there's a cry as Oliver sends the target of her arrow flying forward, the goon's body skidding through the dirt, knocking out his fellow and sending the two of them colliding into the tall grey walls of the bank building, unconscious.
"Good work." Oliver tells her after a moment, his voice sounding slightly ragged with exertion the way it always does after small skirmishes like these. "Caught me a little off guard with that arrow though."
She shrugs, grinning at him as she reaches up to feel the empty spaces in her quiver. One explosive, two pointed gone. "Maybe you're just getting old." She teases.
Oliver's face grows sour for a moment before he grins, moustache bristling; she can hear sirens in the distance, hardly there under the howling of the bank alarm still sounding after these idiots attempted a robbery. "Speaking of getting older." He says smoothly, gesturing for her to follow him towards the attempted robbers, no doubt under the pretext of making sure they don't come to and start squirming again. "It's your birthday in a few days, right?"
For a moment she mulls it over, mentally trying to track the days; the laziness of summer has made it difficult to feel the passing of time, all the days she's spent on the beach at the Cave all blurring into one. "Sure. 20th of July."
"You doing anything special?" When all she does is shrug Oliver's brows raise, hands going to his hips as they come to a stop beside the mass of black she knows to be unconscious criminals. "No parties? Not doing anything with your friends?"
She feels her stomach twist as the sirens begin to grow louder. "... M'gann would usually throw one." She says shiftily, one of her feet jutting out to prod the boot of one of the guys they've just downed, watching as his ankle rocks against the force before flopping back to it original position. "It's just... It's not a big deal."
She can sense him looking at her a little too hard and rather than meet his eyes she makes a show of collapsing her bow, twisting her wrist and clipping it to her belt. "Come on. Sweet Sixteen?" Oliver counters, tone much too light for the critical look behind his mask. "You have to do something to celebrate."
Again she shrugs, not really sure what to say as she looks up at him. "... I booked my driver's test for that day. Does that count?"
In response Oliver makes a scoffing noise. "That's it?"
"Yeah."
"Artemis." Her whines, and she catches herself wincing at the tone— the overlong drawling, the scoff at the end, the expression on his face that seems to tell her she's not catching on quick enough. "I'm your mentor, remember? That means making sure you're adjusting well, on the battlefield and off—"
The sirens are close now; at the mention of adjusting well her nose wrinkles, and as if settling the matter she cuts him off, not wanting to hear the lecture. "It's fine, okay?" She says firmly. "It's not a big deal to me. I spent last year reading alone in the kitchen, getting my driver's license is more than enough excitement."
The police cars are pulling to a stop around the, sirens dying but still painting them in shades of blue and red; Oliver frowns but doesn't say anything back, instead raising a hand to call the new arrivals' attention. "No plans with your Mom?"
"She's working."
"Zatanna? I hear she's been spending a lot of time round your place."
She decides against asking how he knows this. "Probably not."
She watches as his mask wrinkles around his eyes, hand finally lowering. "... Then let's do something, you and me."
"Oliver—"
It's his turn to cut her off, speaking out of the corner of his mouth in a tone that lets her know there's no point in arguing. "I'll drive you to take your test, how's that? And if it goes well, lunch after."
The men at her feet begin to stir, and deciding there's no point in saying no she shrugs once more.
On the nineteenth of July the temperature rockets to a boiling 86 degrees, the hottest the city has been in years; that morning she wakes to sweat clinging to her bones and a view of Zatanna's back as she races to the free air conditioning of the Cave. She lies there for a long time, sweating, before she moves.
Although they've been near constant companions since the beginning of July she finds she doesn't miss the other girl leaving; it's been a long time since her and her mother were alone. Despite the boiling heat her and Paula make a game of it, racing from room to room, opening windows and plugging in fans, but between the weather and their non-existent air conditioning the tiny apartment remains stifling. Even though neither of them can stand the heat it still makes for good fun; for the first time in the while they have something to talk about.
"That used to be my spot, you know."
She jumps slightly, not having heard her mother roll into her bedroom; in an attempt to stay cool she's climbed over her night table and taken a seat on the window ledge, feet dangling about the grate of the fire escape. "It was?" She asks, turning her back on the Gotham light illuminating the smoggy evening sky, rattling her lamp as she turns to face her mother.
In answer Paula nods, rolling closer. "After I used to put you and your sister into bed." She clarifies, and unwillingly both of their eyes are drawn to Zatanna's unmade sheets for a moment. "... Even then July was hot, I used to hope it would be cooler out there. Never was, of course."
"Not much better now, either." She shrugs, smiling slightly.
Paula nods, and for a half second she looks at her with a strange look on her face. "Zatanna's out for the night?"
"The Cave has air conditioning." She offers as an explanation, rattling the lamp on her bedside table as she maneuvers back into her bedroom; pushing her hair back behind her ear she straightens. "What do you think, too hot for tea?"
"… How about we skip the tea this evening?" Paula says after a moment, considering her carefully. "It's your birthday tomorrow. How about we celebrate?"
The offer intrigues her, and when she follows her mother back into the kitchen she's surprised to see two small glasses already set on the table, filled with a sparkling liquid that seems to make her salivate when she inhales it. "What's this?" She asks, picking the chunky bottom glass and raising it to eye level, examining the ice cubes floating in the marigold colored liquid.
In response her mother gestures for her to take her seat. "One of my old favorites." She says genially, looking pleased when she takes her usual chair around the kitchen table, clutching the glass until the coolness seems to seep into her fingers. "You're probably too young to appreciate it, but I thought… Well, it's not every day a girl turns sixteen."
Again, it's that strange sentiment, the instilled belief everyone else seems to have that her birthday is supposed to mean something; rather than argue she does her best to smile as she watches as her mother raises her own glass, gesturing for her to do the same before taking a sip.
When the mysterious liquid seeps down her throat she feels as if she's being gagged by a burning floral sensation, the alcohol flooding through her and making her mouth water for more. It's a strange taste, not quite pleasant but not quite anything else either; she can feel herself swallowing several times before the flavor seems to disappear, dulling on her tongue while the floral scent seems to linger. Paula, for her part, smacks her lips appreciatively. "It's nice." She says, not quite lying.
Her mother seems to know the truth and smiles at her knowingly; after only a few sips she's gotten a strange pink flush rising high in her hollowed out cheek bones. "You will grow into it." She tells her kindly, taking another swig. "It's Vietnamese rice wine, very strong. I thought it would be nice to celebrate your birthday tonight—I'm sorry I couldn't get the day off work tomorrow."
"It's fine." She takes another sip, still not sure if she likes the taste. "I don't really... I mean, it's just like any other day. I was just doing to go down to the DMV and get take my driver's test, Oliver said he'd take me."
Paula's brows raise, and this time when she sips the rice wine she seems to let it linger in her mouth a bit too long before she swallows, as if she's mulling over what to say next. "Oh." A strange pause. "I didn't know you even wanted to get one."
She can feel an uncomfortable squirming in her stomach, not sure if it's the conversation or the liquor— after July 4th she's been off put by alcohol altogether, stomach still remembering the bitterness of vomiting too much of it up. "Yeah, well… I don't know why I'm really doing it." She doesn't mention Marie. "I just thought I should get it out of the way."
Paula nods and takes another sip, this time much larger than the others. When she sets her nearly empty glass down on the table she sighs, a strangely sad smile crinkling her eyes. "… Oh, Darling." She muses, reaching across the table and taking her hand in an odd burst of affection. "You're growing up so fast."
She can't think of anything to say and instead makes a funny shrugging movement, smiling awkwardly. Paula looks at her for too long, hesitating before she squeezes her hand, continuing. "… I could apologize a thousand times and it will never be enough." The older woman sighs, her lower lip beginning to tremble. "Those years we lost each other… You will never know how much I regret them. How much I regret what I did to you."
Paula's hand is like iron on hers as she shifts in her chair, wishing the conversation would end. "It's okay, Mom." She says mechanically. "It's… I mean…"
She's never been good at this sort of thing and trails off before she finishes, feeling helpless; Paula for her part pulls her smile tighter, trying to stop the emotion trembling there. "You always were sweet." To her relief her hand is released and she promptly hides it under the table. "… I just want you to know… I love you, Darling. I don't say it enough."
She doesn't know why she feels as awkward as she does about this, taking another too large mouthful of rice wine; by now both their glasses are nearly empty. Before she can manage to say anything back Paula is shifting in her chair, gesturing across the table to a small wrapped box she hadn't noticed before. "Open it."
"Mom." She starts, feeling uncomfortable. "You didn't—"
"Open it." Paula repeats, sounding more insistent as she reaches across the table, dragging the small wrapped parcel towards her.
She's never been fond of presents— she knows that money is tight, that any present her mother could give her would be bought with money she can't afford, or be found with time she can't spend between work, and doctor's visits, and rehabilitation. Under Paula's gaze it's impossible to hesitate, impossible to say no, and more to please her mother than anything she extends a hand forward, unravelling the ribbon and pulling back the wrapping paper.
At first she isn't entirely sure what she's looking at; the tiny amount of fabric inside is folded, ragged. Feeling her brows furrow she fumbles with the wrapping for a moment, unfurling the small scrap of Kevlar, eyes raking over the familiar burnt orange and black. Then she recognizes the symbol emblazed on it, the familiar paw print, the mess of claw marks that's burned permanently in her brain—
Huntress. A piece of her uniform, her emblem, her colors.
The last piece of Huntress.
She's immediately seized by the urge to throw the old scrap of her mother's uniform across the room; she wants to burn it, wants to shred it, wants to destroy the fragment of what her mother murdered in, was almost murdered in. Rather than do any of these things she watches as her fingers tremble, all the strength coming out of her arm as she flattens the Kevlar against the table top until the symbol emblazoned there is unmistakable.
"It's an old piece from my Huntress uniform." Paula says quietly, providing clarification even though she needs none; she can feel the older woman examining her face very carefully, watching as her cheeks go pale and something about her mouth sets into a tight, almost painful line. "... I couldn't find the whole thing— your father, of course, but— but I found this."
She knows she's supposed to say something but she can't; she can feel herself growing dizzy, her lungs aching for air that she can't quite figure out how to give them. It takes several seconds for her to register the silence in the room, her mind too preoccupied with remembering the last time she saw her mother wearing it, remembering the how the bullets had sliced through her, how her legs had crumpled and her body had seemed too small when it was being trampled into the pavement...
"Oh." She hears herself say, voice sounding very far away.
Paula seems to understand that something's wrong; almost immediately she feels the older woman's fingers sliding through her own, gripping her hand tightly. "... I'm so proud of you, Darling..." Her mother whispers, and she registers the sound of squeaking wheels as she rolls closer. "Every day I watch you make the world a better place, watch as you do so much better than I ever could. My greatest achievement is calling myself your mother."
Her face feels waxy as she turns it towards Paula, skin seeming to crack as she clangs it into a smile. "... Thank you." She forced herself to say, wanting to run and hide in her bedroom.
Paula squeezes her fingers again, and this time when she speaks she can sense emotion stirring under the surface again. "In Vietnam it's tradition to pass down an heirloom when a child comes of age. Something that belongs to the family." Her mother whispers. "I don't teach you enough about home, and I... I wanted to remind you of where you came from. I've made so many mistakes." She sighs, suddenly sounding a tenfold older; she feels her mother's free arm curl around her shoulders, warming her where she's suddenly gone cold. "And I just wanted you to know... If you decide to keep going down the path you're on, and if the time comes... I would be honored if you took my name. Huntress. It would make me so happy if you put something good under that mantle."
For a long moment she remains stiff, eyes unblinking as they stare at the old Huntress emblem. Beside her Paula shifts closer, resting her chin on her shoulder. "... You want me to be her?" She breathes, lungs aching as she begins to come back to herself. "... You want me to be Huntress?"
"The better Huntress." Her mother corrects her, words rustling her hair as she speaks. "... And only when the time is right. It would... Mean a lot to me."
The familiar burnt orange and black seems to glare at her before she blinks; even when she looks away she can sense the colors burning at the backs of her eyes, not willing to be forgotten. "... It would mean a lot to me too." She breathes, the words tasting like vomit as she forces herself to say them, to mean them, the way Paula wants her to. "I— Thank you, Mom."
She doesn't want to look at the scrap of uniform, let alone touch it, but somehow under the influence of Paula's gaze she reaches towards the fabric, splaying a hand across the imprinted claws and blackened stripes still clinging with small threads to the emblem. She feels the wetness of tears beginning to stain the shoulder of her tee shirt, and she wonders how long she'll have to sit like this.
It's too much: this gift, the meaning attached to it. She's not Huntress, she never will be— that had been the point of joining the Team, hadn't it? It had been about escaping the weight of her past, of outrunning the monsters ingrained in the fibers of her being— And if she hates it so much, why does it... Mean something to her? Why does she suddenly feel a tightness in her chest, an unknown emotion stirring in her throat?
It's all too much to think about, sitting confined and too-close around the table. She needs to move, needs to be alone, needs to either sort out or shove aside the feelings and the tension now settling in an unfamiliar tightness about her shoulders.
Her mother straightens, running a hand along her cheek before smoothing her hair back behind her ear. The scrap of Huntress seems to silently snarl at her, unblinking.
Neither of them look, but the clock on the microwave clicks to midnight.
The next morning she wakes to the sound of her cellphone buzzing, the rhythmic vibration rattling against the top of her bedside table.
Groaning, she burrows more surely into her sheets, determined to slip back into unconsciousness; she listens as her phone continues to stutter before finally jolting over the edge and onto the floor, one final vibration sounding before it clicks into voicemail.
It takes a moment or two before her consciousness takes notice of it: the passing of time, of moments, of her life. Slowly she opens her eyes, eyelashes fluttering against her pillow case.
("Sweet Sixteen." Wally says, grinning.)
Now that she's awake it's very difficult to ignore the morning light, and even more the heat of the day that's already beginning to build; when she rolls onto her back to face the ceiling she can feel sweat pooling in the bends of her knees, the folds of her elbows. When she glances towards the bed Zatanna's been occupying the last few weeks she's unsurprised to find it still empty.
She feels exactly the same as she always does— not that she had believed the lie that she would wake up and feel any different. She listens as her phone stats going off again, and this time rather than let it clang against the hardwood she sighs, sitting up and leaning over the edge of the bed to find it; groping for a moment she hardly glances at the caller ID before she flips it open, shoving her hair out of her face. "What?"
"Happy Birthday, Sweetie."
She can practically hear the smile in Oliver's voice; feeling sticky and annoyed she flops onto her back, huffing so loudly the sound fills the speaker. "Thanks."
"You said your test was at eleven?"
"So?"
"It's nine thirty now."
She huffs again, filling the phone speaker with a the sound of rushing air. "Nine thirty? In the morning?" She repeats, glaring at the ceiling despite the fact that he can't see it. "Why the hell are you calling me so early?"
Rather than scold her for her language Oliver chuckles. "I figured you'd want to spend a little time in front of the mirror this morning." He says teasingly. "You know, look nice for that photo they're going to be taking when you pass your test."
She snorts. "Yeah, well. I think the odds of me passing are pretty slim if I fall asleep at the wheel."
She hears him chuckle, one note of laughter sounding before he silences it; despite her mood he seems to be enjoying her snark. "There's the positive attitude. Come on, get up and look pretty. I'm picking you up in an hour."
In typical Oliver fashion he hangs up before she can argue or swear again, and feeling slightly ill tempered she tosses her phone away, listening hard as it bounces off her bed and onto the floor again. She supposes he's right— she should get up.
The apartment is empty: her mother is already at work and Zatanna's probably still sleeping in her bed at the Cave. Yawning, she wanders into the bathroom, already thinking of breakfast and her usual morning cup of tea.
And she doesn't mean to, but when she finishes splashing water on her face she can't stop her eyes from lingering on her reflection in the mirror. How strange it is, this person looking back at her, how different she looks from the girl she used to be, how different her life once was... Has it only nearly been one year since her mother came home? And even less than that since she joined the Team? Since she met Oliver?
Since she met Wally?
She doesn't look at all like the child she was last year— her hair is too-short and tangled from sleep. Her skin is weather beaten and dark. Her eyes seem to stare at her, deeper and more set in her face, cheek bones more hollow.
And even more, she doesn't feel like her anymore either— a child, young. Sometimes, in rare moments of happiness the realities of her youth will slap her hard— how she's supposed to be feeling: free, light, unburdened, will seem louder for a second before it fades, and she will be reminded again of how weighed down she is, of how the fact that these emotions sound strangely in her stomach is a mark of trauma, of abnormality of— how had Oliver put it?— a lack of adjustment. This past year seems to have aged her a thousand times over, crammed a dozen lifetimes into one. Is that what's it's like to be a hero? To live this kind of life? Does everyone feel like this?
... So much has happened. Too much. And more is coming; the Huntress emblem, still splayed flat on her kitchen table from the night before, is proof enough of that. And before she can blink very a strange feeling overwhelms her— it's a strange sensation, like the drop in the pit of her stomach that hits before a downward swoop on a roller coaster, and suddenly it feels as if her life is spinning onward, moving forward without her.
Life is slipping by and people are making decisions for her— they're all living, and planning, and she's just breathing. Breathing hard, as she stares in the mirror. Breathing hard as she stares at her reflection. Watching, waiting. Wondering why she didn't say no when her mother presented her with Huntress.
Why didn't she say no?
That water from the tap is still running. She sighs, feeling ancient, and does her best to leave her weariness behind her.
Her eyes still sting from the flash photography; between the splotches of light clouding her vision she can still see her picture imprinted on the back of her eyelids. Hair sticking out oddly from behind both ears, the ends fraying out in a frizz, lips bitten from concentration and from remembering all the little things Connor had once yelled at her to correct between his swearing...
She hardly hears herself as she gives the older woman behind the counter her address; when she turns to leave she doesn't really see the waiting room around her, filled with dozens of other teenagers looking nervous in the last few minutes before they take their road test.
She does notice Oliver; she can see him through the window, waiting around in the parking lot and looking oddly young as he leans against the hood of a too-sleek silver car. He'd seemed more nervous than she was when he picked her up, quizzing her on last minute things she's known for weeks now, missing the turn into the lot when they had driven up. Even now he's fidgeting, crossing and uncrossing his arms, fiddling with his moustache, head turning to follow the sirens as they pass. She wonders if Gotham makes him uneasy.
She can't stop the grin that bursts across her lips as the door to the DMV closes behind her; at once Oliver straightens off the hood of his car, looking expectant. "Well?"
She doesn't answer for a long moment, instead taking pleasure in the tension between his eyes as she takes her time crossing the lot. Oliver manages to repeat his "Well?" three more times before she reaches him, grinning as she slaps the folds of the crisp piece of paper open onto the top of his windshield for him to read. "Passed."
He hardly seems to read the words on the paper, which are bolded and severe and make it clear that it's a temporary license, and that the official scrap of plastic is on its way in the mail; instead he lets out an exasperated noise of relief, reaching to pull her into a hug. "Oh, thank god."
"Excuse me?"
Oliver ignores her the fakeness of her offended tone and the way she tries to shove him off; after a moment of him smiling into the top of her head he pulls back, both hands grasping her by the shoulder. "I'm kidding. Knew you could do it, Sweetie."
He's smiling at her the way a father would, and suddenly she can't stop herself— can't stop the smile aching on her cheeks, or her stomach from jumping and twisting because she did it, she actually did it; her hand seems to move of its own accord to grab her permit again, turning the paper over in her hands, voice trembling and high pitched and beginning to talk over his congratulations so quickly she reminds herself of M'gann. "My actual license is coming in a few weeks—you were right, by the way, everyone looks awful in those things—"
She trails off, shaking her head in disbelief as she reads the paper again, as if not really believing what's happening; strangely she's suddenly seized by the wild impulse to hug him again and for once indulges it, hesitating only for a second before she surges forward, throwing her arms around his middle for an extra second. She still can't believe it's really happening— she's so used to things like this blowing up in her face; she hardly registers the bristling of his moustache in surprise before she pulls back again, flushing. "I don't even know if this thing allows me to drive or anything, I just know it means I passed—I passed!"
Rather than look surprised by her strange bout of affection Oliver takes it all in stride, the smile when he looks down at her now so wide it's ruffling his moustache at an odd angle. "Yeah, yeah, I'm proud of you. Makes what I'm about to say a little less terrifying— you know, for my insurance company and pedestrians everywhere." Before she can even follow what he's saying he's pulling back, digging in his pocket for a moment.
"I got you this car."
For some reason she doesn't quite process the meaning of the sentence—in fact, the only thing she's aware of for a long moment is the key ring he's just extracted that's now dangling in front of her face.
The light catches the startling silver of the key ring and she blinks like an idiot. "... What?"
He seems to be expecting this reaction, moustache twitching as he shakes the keys a little impatiently; she immediately notices a long sterling silver charm dangling off the ring, a delicate-looking chain wielding a pointed arrow head. That alone has to be worth more than anything in her apartment. "The car." He repeats, lowering the keys. "This one right here? I bought it for you. A little Sweet Sixteen present from me to you."
She feels her mouth fall open but she doesn't do anything to stop it, instead following the jerking of his head towards the vehicle in question to stare at it with wide eyes. She doesn't know a damn thing about cars, beyond the fact that she's sure this one is expensive: leather interior, a sleek silver finish, sparkling rims that seem to catch the light no matter how she tilts her head.
Oliver seems to watch very carefully, the corners of his mouth twitching when she finally closes hers; for some reason her tongue is suddenly very dry. "... It doesn't have to be this car, of course." He says after a moment, apparently reading the shock on her face for something else. "I just thought—well, it was what I pictured you in. We can pick out another one together, if you want."
All the pride that's been sounding in her stomach seems to fizzle out, muddling into a dribbling puddle about her knees. "… You want to give me a car?" She croaks, palms accidentally creasing the slip of paper still in her hands.
"As a birthday present." He clarifies. "I got Roy one when he turned sixteen. Only fair that you get one too."
He's not even finished the sentence before she's shaking her head. "You can't give me a car."
"Why not?"
"Because, Oliver." She mumbles, not wanting to look at the silver exterior anymore. "It's— that's too much, okay? With Roy, God, I mean— when he was sixteen you'd already been mentoring him for how many years?" It seems to take a few moment before she can put the confusing feelings in her stomach into words. "I— I don't deserve something like this—"
Before she can really get into a proper stride Oliver's scoffing. "Enough, Artemis. Most people just say thank you."
"And—and how am I supposed to pay for gas? Or insurance?"
At this it's Oliver's turn to look a little disbelieving, smile still wide at her reaction. "Please. Look at who you're talking to."
She feels her face crumple in a glare. She hates hand outs— how long has he known her? Shouldn't he know this? "… Where am I supposed to park it?" She says after a moment.
He doesn't even consider this, waving off her concerns quickly. "At the Cave. Or at my place, should you want to visit. Hell, I'll even build a private parking garage near your place, if that's what it takes." She opens her mouth to argue and is promptly cut off when he reaches for her, grabbing her wrist and forcing her to take the keys. "Come on, Sweetie. I'm making up for sixteen years of missed presents. Let me spoil you, as a favor to me."
She can tell he really means it, and for a moment she bites the inside of her lip before she gives in, fingers curling around the keys halfheartedly. "... Fine."
Oliver seems pleased, or at least satisfied enough to finally release her, still grinning as he rounds the front of the car. "Now, I want to make myself clear. This car is strictly for fun." He teases, voice trying and failing to sound as if he's giving orders. "No missions, no hero stuff—I'm giving it to you under the impression that you'll be getting into lots of trouble with it."
She doesn't know why it's so hard to smile back as he folds his arms atop the roof, teeth glinting at her as he sends her one last teasing smile. "... Okay." She says mechanically. Her hand doesn't even feel as if it belongs to her as it tightens around the keys.
"Come on then, birthday brunch. You're driving."
"I'm not supposed to give too much away," Oliver starts later, when her stomach is practically bursting from all the pancakes she's eaten, "But I would make a point to pop by the Cave today, if I were you."
Her mouth automatically frowns as she spears a strawberry on the end of her fork. "Why?"
Oliver fumbles with the edge of his napkin, unfurling the fabric and wiping his moustache once. "Can't say."
"God." She mutters, popping the syrup soaked berry into her mouth and narrowing her eyes at him across the table. "The car wasn't enough? You're making the Team throw a party? What, is MTV going to be there filming too?"
Oliver snorts at her tone. "Well, you've certainly got that teenage attitude up and running." He says, at at once she feels her face break; before she apologize, or back-track, or try to explain that she's still rattled from getting a car she didn't really want he's cutting across her, waving off the guilty look she's wearing. "Besides, who says the surprise is just for you?"
This quirks her interest, brows raising as she frowns again. "... What?"
"Just trust me." Oliver says in a strangely guarded way, looking pleased when she leans into the back of her chair, the waistband of her shorts now uncomfortably tight. "But I think you'll be happy if you go. Really happy."
She jerks her head moodily; after such a large meal she not much up for anything except perhaps a nap. Grinning, Oliver gestures to a passing waitress for the cheque. Her eyes can't help but linger on the platinum of his credit card, suddenly feeling about half an inch tall as he pays for her meal. "... Take the zeta tubes there this afternoon. I'll make sure your car beats you there."
When the disembodied voice finishes saying her name she's expecting to be practically bulldozed by people and sound; it's with a certain amount of wariness, however, when she takes her first step forwards into silence.
Not just into silence, but into emptiness—nobody has coming forward at the announcement of her arrival, or is in the process of burling towards her; in fact, in the nearly half minute she stands there nothing happens at all, only the sound of her feet finally stepping forward breaking the unnerving quiet.
She's not entirely upset about this less than rambunctious greeting, just slightly unnerved as she crosses the room and hears her own feet as they echo against the white tiles, head swiveling to look around at the lack of, well, anyone around her as she rounds the familiar hallway that leads to the kitchen. "… Hello?" She calls after a moment, half-expecting a reply, or an ambush of people.
Once again, silence. She knows her Team— the joke has gone on long enough now. If anyone had been around to hear her they would have already announced themselves.
... Okay. Maybe she is a little disappointed. But she supposes after her mother's gift of Huntress, and Oliver's car... Well, maybe she's had her fill of surprises anyway.
Today has been so... Not what she'd been expecting. Not that she had been looking forward to turning sixteen; she's never really understood the sentiment behind Sweet Sixteen, never really wanted all the attention or the presents or the expectation behind it. It's just another year, another trip around the sun. Nothing special.
Or at least that's how she'd seen it. It's everyone else who's making it... Uncomfortable for her. First her mother, telling her she wants her to become Huntress, as if she'd want to be the demonic creature that once killed people for money, who tortured anyone who stood in her way. How is she supposed to bring any good to that mantle? How is it fair to have that responsibility on her shoulders? She still struggles with her own demons enough, how is she supposed to tame someone else's? Doesn't her mother get that that kind of pressure... It's just too much?
... And the car. Oliver's car, that was just... Ridiculous. Getting her license was ridiculous too, she admits; it had been a promise to a dead woman, something she needed to do to... What? Prove something to herself? Prove that she could be independent? And he had just... Spoiled it. Accidentally of course. But... Why did he even need to get her that expensive thing anyway? She's sure that car cost more than her whole apartment building, what's she supposed to do with that? And they've known each other for less than a year now, what has she possibly done in that amount of time to be worthy of that? How is it fair to give her something that big? She'll never be able to reciprocate, never be able to pay him back for that. Now there's expectations to go along with it— that she'll use it, that she owes him. She didn't want that, she didn't ask for it...
... She's probably being childish, she knows she is. The sentiment, behind the Huntress emblem— and the car. Oliver had only bought her it because he had wanted to treat her, to make her feel... Something. Normal, she supposes. She's just not sure how she's supposed to wrap her head around these things, the— absolute fucking abnormality of being told she's supposed to want to be Huntress, or the extreme normalcy of being presented a car... She feels as if she's being told to be two completely different kinds of people— and that's just it, she's being told, not asked—
— It's just too much. Huntress, the car. It's too much too quickly, too many demands being asked of her. A few days ago she didn't owe anyone anything, now she's juggling expectations and promises and legacies and debt— it's too much too fast, why would they think she'd want that? Do they even know her at all?
When she reaches the common room her Teammates' absence is suddenly explained—through the window she can see perfect rays of sunshine, a cloudless sky and a perfect day for the beach. She's sure they're all outside, no doubt enjoying the weather; stretching her arms above her head she wanders aimlessly towards the window, wondering if she'd rather go join the lounging outside or sneak off to her bedroom for a nap.
Kid Flash. B03.
She lowers her arms so quickly that she accidentally knocks her elbow against the glass, a sharp twang of pain running up her arm; distantly she hears the sound of footsteps against vacant tile, moving quickly towards her. "Honey, I'm ho-ome!" Wally shouts, voice sing-song and teasing in a way that makes her sure he's not calling for her.
She's clutching at her elbow awkwardly when he rounds the corner, clinging to the door frame and flinging himself into the kitchen as if he's expecting a whole crowd to be there; feeling strange about responding to the greeting she blushes. "Uh, hey."
Even from across the room she can see his ears going off, the exaggerated grin on his face faltering slightly when he realizes it's just her; at once his posture seems to shrink with embarrassment. "Oh." He blanches; as if to cover the sticky moment he opens to door to the fridge, letting it wobble on its hinge for a moment before he shuts it again. "Hi."
It feels a little pointless to greet him again but she does. "Hi."
There's several seconds of awkward silence in which Wally's ears only seem to grow more red; finally he seems to gather some nerve, one hand clapping to his neck. "... Sorry." He starts, avoiding her eye as he takes a few tentative steps towards her. "I— Kaldur called. Said he wanted everyone to come to the Cave."
He seems encouraged when she smiles; after a moment's hesitation the tentative footsteps grow more sure as he crosses the room towards her. "Yeah." She nods. "That's what Oliver said too. You know what for?"
"Nah, didn't say."
For some reason she can't quite look at him as he comes to a stop at her side; it feels so strange to be near him again, at this spot she once thought of as theirs. It's very hard not to remember how many times they've stood here, sat here, screamed here. She can see all the moments in her mind now; how they sat here with their legs and their minds tangled, watching spring unfold over the ocean. How the heat of their tea had steamed the glass. She remembers bickering over their homework and fights for the last cookie in the package, can feel the cool glass against the back of her head as he had tilted her jaw towards his.
They were only together for a few months. God, it doesn't feel like that little amount of time. Somehow the weeks feel as if they've bled into years, as if she's lived a dozen lifetimes with Wally. The freezing evenings of the New Year spent beneath blankets were followed by the first sun rays of spring, and in those few months they had together she felt for the first time that she was actually living.
... How things change, and so quickly too. In less than a year of knowing this boy she's hated him, tolerated him, loved him and hated him all over. But people grow up. And people change. Who knows what her sixteenth year will hold.
Although there's less distance between the two of them now she can still sense the miles between them, the careful sterility despite the intimacy of the room— the way his gaze lingers then leaves her, the clearing of throats, the measured foot and a half that finally separates them.
She is so tired of this. So tired of needing him both close and far away.
She doesn't say any of this, of course; instead she goes back to looking out the window, trying not to think of better times when being around Wally was easy, not a mess of toeing across barriers and peaking around lines. "... Me neither." She says. "I kinda thought— I don't know. A... Birthday thing or something."
It's odd; the half second it seems to take for this information to click in his head feels oddly forced. "Oh, yeah." He chuckles, turning to grin down at her. "Yeah. Happy birthday, Blondie."
She's not expecting it when he reaches out to wrap an arm around her shoulder, pulling her to him in not quite a hug but not quite anything else; for a moment the warmth of his muscles curling around her seems to singe through the thin fabric of her tee shirt, sending flames through her body that ignite her cheeks. Before she can properly figure out what this is supposed to mean or how she feels about it he's pulling away. "Thanks." She mutters, thankful when her hair flops forward to hide herself from him.
Wally's ears are burning again. "So, good birthday so far?" He asks, voice a little wobbly but otherwise cheerful enough. "Sweet Sixteen everything you want it to be?"
Instead of answering properly she lets out a vague sounding hum, shrugging as she tucks her hair back behind her ear. "Yeah. It's been— Yeah. Good."
It's not really much of an answer and she's not surprised when Wally seems to read through it; at once he's glancing down at her, one brow raising. Before he can say anything else she shakes her head, not looking at him but silently telling him not to ask. "We should probably track everyone down, huh? Figure out why we're supposed to—"
She feels her eyes narrow, voice cutting off and not finishing her sentence; at once Wally's eyes follow hers, gazing through the window. "Weird." He says for her, brows furrowing. "... I've never seen a green bird before."
It's a little thing, with about the same features and sizes as the birds from the grove of trees she knows so well. Despite the openness of the beach and the heat of the day its is perched along the ledge just beyond their window, twittering and hopping around the grout of the small and nearly invisible balcony railed into the side of their mountain. "Yeah." She says vaguely, squinting through the window. The bird keeps squawking through the glass, as if trying to attract her attention. "Me neither."
The little bird has Wally's attention too; as they stand there watching the little thing seems to chatter at them, occasionally taking flight in a small dithering circle before touching back down to the ledge of the balcony, hopping excitedly and flapping its almost leafy looking wings. "Looks almost like a sparrow. Or a robin."
There's something odd about the way he says it; despite pointing out the similarities she can tell he knows as well as she does that something's off, something's not quite right about that innocent looking bird; the two of them continue watching, spines straightening and eyes narrowed.
Even though she can't hear it she knows the bird is chatting at her; everything, from its eyes to its beak, is painted the same verdant green. "Yeah." She mumbles, brows furrowing. "Hold on."
"Artemis?"
She can't explain why she beelines around him, heading towards the exit; something, some strange and overwhelming instinct is swirling in her stomach, telling her something, something she can't understand...
The door to the ledge clatters behind her, Wally catching it a moment later as he follows her; the day is balmy, the kind of hot in Happy Harbor that immediately sticks into her skin and seems to melt there, coating her in a pleasant humidity that she doesn't stop to enjoy. She can hear the shrill chirping, the wild flapping of wings sounding oddly distorted by the echoing of waves against the edges of the mountain, her legs stuttering as she struggles to follow the sound. The metal of the railing burns her hand as she follows it, clinging to the curling of the balcony until she back tracks to the hidden viewpoint of the window.
"Artemis— don't." Wally says from behind her as she stumbles towards the bird. "I'm serious, there's something not right about—"
The bird lets out a shrilly whistled song as she approaches it, one stray hand moving to make a shooing movement; behind her one of Wally's palm closes around her wrist, trying to pull her back.
There's one more long sounding whistle before something happens; there's a strange stretching noise, the sound of muscles ripping and bones crackling to life and the unpleasantness of fibers of flesh stretching beyond their means, and in a movement that's almost too quick for her eyes it happens— at once the little bird seems to dissolve in front of her, the feathers turning stiff and the beak retracting into a skull; and she can hear, it, the sound of skin ripping open and a body being amputated and life being pulled out of no where and at once whatever it is it burling towards her, a mess of atoms and genetics and the unknown; her heart seems to simultaneously halt and hammer to life in her chest, brain hardly registering when Wally pulls her back towards him, a single foul word firing out of his mouth as he yanks her back against his chest, one palm clutching at her shoulder as if ready to sweep her into a run—
It happens almost instantly, the whatever it is twists and stretches as it curls in the air towards them, malleable one second and then the next—
She gasps when she feels a familiar weight collide with her stomach; at once her instinct to claw and strange is cut short, her ears placing the sound of a delighted and childish laugh as it fires through the air, no doubt amused by the fear on their faces.
"Artemis!" Garfield Logan cries out, every inch of him green as he winds his arms around her waist.
AN: There, another chapter up and running. I've had people in my reviews and PMs for a week now yelling at me to update quicker— sorry guys, but I'm currently enduring typical end of semester assignments and soon I'll be in finals. You're all at the mercy of my schooling and stress, same as me.
I hope the update was worth the delay. I'm going to try to get the next chapter up a bit quicker this time around and then I think I'm going to go on a brief hiatus for the holidays— I need to unwind from such a hectic semester and spend some time pumping out some chapters for this thing.
Read and Review, please!