Prologue: Realism of the Jaded Mind

When I first received my scholarship to Gotham's most prestigious scholarly institute, I immediately assumed that Green Arrow had been my anonymous patron. Good things never happen in my life because of some lucky star. For me, most strokes of luck come by the string pulling of my self-proclaimed mentor. Oliver Queen must sometimes think of himself as my puppet master or, better yet, fairy god-mother at this point.

It would have been nice if for once the world had given me a miraculous gift because I earned it. It would have been nice, but I am and will always be a realist. Therefore, I know that, more than likely than not, Queen was in fact involved with my new found academic standing at Gotham Academy.

Green Arrow just always has to be involved. That's how all these rich, know-it-all, Justice League big shots act. When they find some 'poor' and 'distraught' damsel like me they think: "Wow! I'm an awesome (totally not self-centered and just getting over my sidekick dumping me) master of the universe! Maybe today I'll go butt into the life of some poor unfortunate who's totally incapable of handling herself without my magic money band-aids!"

Well, Queen, you're going to have to gag me with a (silver) spoon if you don't want me to complain about that attitude of yours.

It must be the curse of theses super-hero types. They want to save the world one lost, teenaged, and trained from birth criminal at a time.

By giving me this scholarship, Queen was swooping in once again to save the day as he saw fit. His mother hen attitude makes me want to have my own infamous hat tossing moment in the middle of the school cafeteria. The thing is, Queen must not make me that angry because none of my schooldays at Gotham Academy have ended in such dramatic outbursts.

Sure, I could pretend that Queen only ever helped me because he's a bleeding heart liberal mixed with some rich guilt mumbo-jumbo with a large helping of a major hero complex and a dash of chauvinistic knight-errant on top. But again, I'm a realist and, realistically, no one who isn't honestly a great, heroic, caring man would do as much for me as Ollie did and continues to do. He's still prideful as hell, but everyone's got their faults...

Ollie helped me and, more importantly, my mom get out of the worse of a really bad situation; the type of situation where I was in way over my head but was still trying to tread water and gulp for air. I am, needless to say, eternally grateful to Ollie for doing doing just that one thing, but that's not even the half of what I owe him for.

I didn't want to be where I was. Ollie saw that I needed a way out and he saw how much pain, sweat, and struggle it would take to help me... and yet he helped me anyways. To this day, he still hardly knows who I am, but doesn't force me to open up.

I am a stranger. I am a stranger who has done terrible things. I could easily have faulty loyalties (I don't) and turn on him at any moment (I wouldn't, I don't have the hat for it). I am a loud mouthed and rebellious teen who barely cooperated when Green Arrow was trying to help me make a break for a new life. I still keep some secrets and feel guilty when Green Arrow tries to help me more.

Queen saw how underneath my hardness, sarcasm, deadly skill, and hulking denial of weakness, I was (somewhat) lost and uncertain...

I can never express how agonizing it is to feel helpless, as if every option you could take has more downsides than upsides or how it feels to have your entire self-worth built around your skill with a bow and arrow or how you hate yourself when you see a weapon as your pride and happiness and ecstatic joy and are disgusted with yourself every time someone asks (read demands) you to use that beloved skill for a purpose you find completely despicable and demoralizing.

The doors Ollie opened for me were doors I had been clawing at for my whole existence. Ollie let a girl who had been told that she was incapable, useless, helpless, and worthless without the secret missions she did at night remember that she is capable, useful, helpful and worthy. Then, he set me up with a way to be a family with my mother and still be an archer. Also, he found me a team.

I don't know Red Arrow or Speedy or whatever his name is all that well, but according to my team (I secretly love calling them that) when Green Arrow took me on as his new protégé and put me on the team Speedy should have been a part, he furthered the rift between himself and Roy (Oh, look, I remembered his name). Ollie put finding me the life I wanted before his relationship with the guy he considered his son for years before he ever knew I existed. Is there anything that could be more heroic than self-sacrifice?

I put my frustration due to my ineptitude (and, since I like to complain, the rest of the world in general too) out on Ollie and he takes it all in stride.

I caused strain to his partnership, made him lie to other heroes (like I would let any uncle of mine run around with that ridiculous goatee), and stole a place in his private life even though I don't let him in my own. I am a liability and yet, Arrow willingly made himself my hero and my friend (and my fairy god-mother, I can't forget that).

Oliver Queen gave me a life that I can be proud of living. He gave me the power to retool my focus and master my skill by saving people instead of destroying them. Thanks to him, I am a hero. Well, mostly thanks to myself because I'm just that awesome, but Ollie helped some and that means something to me.

I used to think that being a realist meant that I couldn't believe heroes like Green Arrow exist. His helping me hurts so bad; I feel terrible that I never thought to be as selfless as him. I was jaded and never believed in the kindness of others (unless we're counting my mother). If I didn't think there were heroes like him and never tried to become a hero like him, then what kind of person does that make me?

I feel like I need to repay Queen and don't know how. I don't know how to explain this uncertainty to him but every day I say nothing the gnawing in my stomach grows deeper. I never show him how much what he did for me mattered. I, one of the most capable people I know, feel incapable when it comes to this. Owing something to him makes me restless and frustrated. I never wanted to ask anyone for help and I never did. Ollie helped me on his own and somehow that makes it even worse.

The voice in my head which sounds suspiciously like my father whispers:"Maybe you were better off where you were before the archer. At least you knew where you stood and didn't have these insecurities. You did what you had to and that was that."

I will never listen to that voice again because I have my life that's worth living to fight for. Ollie believes that I have the strength to live my life as a hero; I cannot let him down.

This is my new life where I feel like I have power and truly have it; Where I can do whatever I please whenever I please. I want to run my own life without having to rely on others for once because if I don't then I'll feel indebted to those helpers and unworthy of their favors until I can pay them back. I don't like owing people favors; in my experience, you never know what others will ask in return. To say the least, it can be messy.

I made it clear to Queen that I couldn't accept more from him. I told him my private life was off limits. My mom and I are going to try being on our own. I won't have to feel guilty and will be sure that, in my life outside the bow and arrow, I've paved my own way.

I am not incapable. I am not a charity case. I am my own person. This is why Ollie and I have an agreement.

When I think of my scholarship to Gotham Academy, I worry that Queen may have opened his checkbook to a chain of rich elite who know someone who knows someone to indiscreetly get me into the school. I cannot believe Queen didn't foresee that I'd notice his obvious assistance. Queen should realize I know by now that he's the one looking out for me whenever life turns my way. After all, no one gets two guardian angels; that would be unrealistic.

I am thankful to Queen, so I'm not really that angry. But it hurts for him to break our agreement and that means I am still somewhat angry. And sort of angry for me is enough to be life threatening for him.
But maybe, just maybe, there's been some fluke. Maybe some else arranged this scholarship. Maybe it's my dad toying with me or something. I don't know.

Honesty, I need Ollie to have respected my boundaries even if they're silly and not in my favor. I have a shortage of people I trust and I want Ollie to still be one of them. I just don't want to repeat the trust issues that Queen had with Mr. Yet-Another-Annoying-Redhead. Even Oliver will hate me if I accuse him of going against our agreement to get me this scholarship if it turns out he wasn't involved.

I don't want to lose him. I will cool my fury for once and belay my accusation. I will not erode away Queen's current high tolerance for my irrationality. And so I will make sure Ollie is involved in this silver-lining scholarship or else I'll never forgive myself for jumping to conclusions to harp at a guy who's done nothing but help me, even if that help sometimes feels a little condescending.

This is the beginning of Operation: Charity Case.

Part One: Mid-lift Crisis

I have to say that the most aggravating thing about being a hero is denying yourself the use of certain abilities in your civilian identity. As Artemis Crock, I can't hit the far side of a barn. As Artemis Crock, I can't sneak around without crunching leaves loudly. As Artemis Crock, I can't differentiate from Green Lantern and Green Arrow.

Meanwhile, the team's Artemis is precise and accurate. I take pride in my stealth and agility. I have meet Green Lanterns who don't even serve the sector that includes Earth (Okay, so I was only in the same room with them and Green Arrow didn't introduce me or anything, but still.)

My point is that the only thing that keeps Artemis Crock from being Artemis the superhero is what I allow myself to do.

Unfortunately, breaking and entering is one of the things Artemis Crock is not, under any circumstances, allowed to do. This isn't just because I prefer keeping my record clean or showing that civilian Artemis doesn't know how to pick a lock. This is about not getting kicked out of the school I just got into, so breaking in to the office as Artemis Crock is a no go.

But if I want to break in as a cape, I run the risk of being found investigating the money trail of my scholarship without a motivation that includes superhero stuff instead of mundane, normal civilian identity stuff.

Of course, I don't think I would get caught if I just barged in to the school office one night, but I rather not risk it if I have other options. And, quite frankly, in this case I do.

There is no good reason why Artemis Crock would not be trying to figure out how exactly she got this one in a lifetime scholarship to Gotham Academy. In fact, it seems every rich snob I meet wants to figure out the same thing.

Yes, I am not a slouch in my studies. Yes, I bring diversity to campus life. Yes, my mother happens to be a handi...capable single mother making me appropriately needy. These things might be why someone would find my application interesting. (If there had been an application that is, but nobody besides my mother knows that there wasn't. No need to make myself stand out anymore than I already do, right?)

So, I know that people are always assuming these are the reasons why I got my foot in the door, but now I hear the other students whispering about what it was about me that made that door then fly open.

Am I a master violinist? Do I plan to cure cancer? Was that my rich, estranged aunt on the phone? Am I the mayor's secret lovechild? Did I screw the headmaster? Did I invent Facebook?

Who the hell knows.

I told a few kids that I was a five minute reality star on that one MTV show...you know the one with the thing... and most people claimed they totally remembered that and loved me on it and that one time I did whatever and whatchamacallit.

Morons.

Anyways, so Artemis Crock can just enter the office of Philip Wilcox, Dean of Financial Aid, and make some inquiries...if she can just get the hell out of this bloody elevator.

My God! This thing moving is just like Baywatch when someone tells him to move his eyes from down there to up here i.e they both take their sweet goddamn time.

whung whung whin whi clunch

Yes, I'm screwed. This elevator is stuck like not moving, going nowhere, I hope you're not claustrophobic S-T-U-C-K. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I am not claustrophobic. I've been on enough stakeouts and break-ins as part of my past and present lives to know that small spaces only close in on you when you lose your cool, and I never lose my cool so claustrophobia is not the issue. The issue is that the only person I know in this apartment building is my mother who I am so not calling to rescue me.

I promised her this place would be great.

"Look at the rent-control, Mom; the place is a bargain," I told her. "Look, isn't that a nice shade of pea-green on the back-splash. No, it doesn't look like baby food; it's just the lighting, Mom. Look at that A/C, Mom. No, I'm sure they'll fix it for us, Mom. And look, there's a elevator, Mom. No, it's not old; it's retro and perfectly safe, Mom."

Calling my mom is not an option if I want to keep my promises. Besides, she's at work right now. She's a bookkeeper at the community center down the street. And yes, she could easily take an early leave and help me out, but I don't want to make her do that. I can fix this myself.

I fought the landlord on her weekly "maintenance fees", replaced the light in the bathroom to a bluish LED that hides the baby food tile, and fixed the A/C myself with some elbow grease and frustrated pounding. There's no chance that I can't find a way to solve this retro elevator problem too without Mom knowing.

Thank God I'm wearing boots and gloves today. I jump on the paneling's arm-guard and lay against the wall. Pulling out my pocket knife, I pry open the emergency panel. I throw myself upwards and the grips of my gloves luckily find purchase on the edge of the opened ceiling before I begin dropping downwards.

On top of the elevator, I can see that the lift is between levels. My legs and arms are tightly wound around the elevator cable as I inchworm my way upwards.

I find the ledge for the floor hatch. It is wide enough to grab hold of and then stand on.

I can make the leap to the floor's hatch if I can get the right angle. I pull myself above where I want to go and fall sideways to grab at it. During my descent, I catch the ledge in my gloved fingers and grunt. I am looking downwards at the elevator cart and thinking of elevator music rather than the sound my body would make if I fell.

I use the pressure of pushing tight against the wall of the elevator shaft to stand upright. My pocket knife plunges once more and pulls at the seams of the hatch. It gives way and I tumble upwards and inwards. My body lands in a pouncing pose by force of habit.

A stunned baby-faced preteen removes his eyes from his Gameboy long enough to take notice of what I've just done. The completely not normal, run of the mill, not a superhero thing I've just done. Yeah.

"I'm the elevator inspector. You're elevator failed my test. It should never take," I look at my watch, "three minutes and forty-nine seconds to escape a broken cart. Standard evacuation time is three minutes flat. Have your parents contact your landlord and have her make the proper updates to code, sir," I tell him, swatting at the dust on my outfit all the while. I give him what I hope is a sincere smile and make my way to the stairwell.

The landlord will be confused, but she'll get the message. As long as I convince Mom to stay at her boyfriend's place this weekend, then I'll have until Monday for the lift to be fixed without her knowing it ever broke down.

I pull my ponytail out and run my hands through my hair. Fingering a new hole on my jacket, I bet I don't look my best right now. I decide the sloppy look will have to do when I hear the angry ramblings of a mother scolding the neighbor boy I just meet for making up ridiculous stories about the elevator police. I am not showing my face around here for a while.

I turn on my heel and run down the stairwell; onwards to the subway and then to the Dean's office.

Operation: Charity Case cannot be stopped.

Part Two: Of Sex, Wilcox, and Dick (In That Order)

I'm winded by the time I reach the building, having run the whole way once I exited the subway. I stop and hold my aching ribs. Sometimes, I forget that my meta teammates are not around to chastise me if I don't keep up. Not that I could keep up with speedsters or the like; I mean an annual Superman versus Artemis race for the title of Fastest (Wo)Man Alive would never gather crowds. It's just that being around that kind of ace ability messes with your head. You have to go above and beyond you best or else you're not trying. Robin gets it. In fact, he may have invented it for our generation. He is the first sidekick for a reason.

School let out almost two and a half hours ago, but the doors are unlocked for all the after school activities and clubs. In fact, I've joined the Latin club and we have a meeting in thirty minutes.

My mom basically ordered me to join a club so I could make friends and have something good for my college application. I take Latin because I love the irony. Why learn a language that no one speaks?

I speak tiếng Việt and some French well enough that I'm not missing out on the bilingual incentive and can waste my time with Latin. It has grown on me though. Latium est vitam as our teacher says.

There's some interesting kids in Latin Club too. I mean, we don't really do anything Latin related in Latin Club. We eat Italian food and play games mostly. Today, we're playing mat ball in the new gym. It is "Latin-y" because we call it pila tapetum and score the game in Latin. Except we never get past six (sex) because the boys refuse to. If we're at eleven to five then the score is sex et sex et subtrahit unus versus sex et subtrahit unus. See, they got to say sex three times. How fun.

Okay, so most of the guys on the Latin club are about as mature as the kids who cram crayons up their noses, but that isn't everyone. In fact, the youngest kid in the class seems to be the most mature half the time. Probably because he's grown up with kids making fun of his unfortunate name: Dick.

After I deal with the office, Dick might be able to help me out some more. Apparently his adoptive father is the one and only Bruce Wayne...as in my Wayne Foundation scholarship's fop billionaire backer Bruce Wayne so maybe Dick can give me a general idea of how the Wayne Foundation works and therefore get me one step closer to seeing how Ollie could have gotten me into this school.

Dick is an agreeable guy, but maybe he'll be mad that I'm using him for intel. It's best to not let him realize I'm doing just that. I rather not hurt the feelings of one of my only friends at this place. At least, I'd like to keep my delusion that we are friends alive. I doubt he thinks so much of our relationship. A gifted, rich, easy-going kid like Dick probably has dozens of hanger-ons and can't take the time to realize I've become one of them. It's not my fault that I want to be his friend so badly. The kid just feels familiar. Like I've known him in some other life. Sometimes, I slip up and act myself around him. The not quite superhero and not quite normal civilian me. Yeah, sappy me is not pretty. Moving on.

Philip Wilcox, Dean of Admissions and Financial Aid, has an office within the spacious wing that makes up part of the new addition. Apparently, Gotham Academy took Amazo's damage to the gym as a way to sneak in unnecessary updates to the faculty offices among other things. I should be agitated by the irresponsible waste of funds by these privileged eggheads, but I'm not. Their greed is good news for me today.

Less mess. Life doesn't have to always be complicated, right? When people have to move their office, the new office is temporarily a lot more organized. Because of the transition from one room to another, the secretary will have rearranged the paperwork she's kept into orderly file cabinets with color coded labels; the paper work she hasn't kept she will have uploaded to the school sever. This means that when I distract the dean so that I can do a little investigating, I won't spend as much time rummaging around.

What? Just because I'm not breaking in doesn't me I'm just going to politely take whatever no nothing response Wilcox gives me. I'm here for answers and I mean real answers; Answers to what I should say the next time I see Queen.

I stop outside the door to the new offices to get my bearings. I thought over my plan of action on the subway ride, but a plan is never too perfect to be analyzed once more.

The regal, mahogany door of the renovated addition is pushed open by an exiting student right as I reach for the handle. The door is nearing towards me, somehow in slow motion. I recognize the guy who is about to impound my face with this grand, heavy, overpriced slab of wood. The lanky redhead is one of the less mature kids from the Latin club. My mind fumbles for his name but the only relevant thought that I can find in the short span before my nose is reconstructed is that in class we call him Caesar. I guess it's better than nothing.

"Caesar!" I call out to him hastily before he jams the door into my face. His gangly height thrusts out a long leg to catch the door a moment to late. The wood surface bumps into the planes of my stupefied face.

"Ow," I mumble. I remove my gloves and rub the reddening skin. Caesar's frown gives me the distinct impression that I now look like a glorified tomato. Note to self: Artemis Crock in the future shall have the reflexes to jump out of the way of a stupid door; I don't care if Artemis the superhero has good reflexes as well. Nothing so embarrassing and painful is worth it, secret identity be damned.

Caesar looks at me dumbly. I guess he's too prideful to say sorry.

"I'll see you in the gym. Just go get me some ice from the nurse's office, kid." I throw him a scowl and he accepts my command, shuffling off on his unwieldy legs.

Briefly, I wonder if I was too hard on him; after all, he can't help it that he hasn't grown into his body yet.

The secretary takes one look at my tomato face and momentarily loses her grip around her paper coffee cup. Caesar or whoever he is will just have to get over some ruffled feathers. I'm not feeling too charitable right now.

"Not another one," I swear I hear the secretary say under her breath.

"I had a run in with the door. Real quality materials around here," I say flatly. She plasters a fake smile on her face and ignores my comment.

"Is there something I can help you with, Miss..?"

"Crock," I supply. "C-R-O-C-K. First name's Artemis. Like the goddess." I glace sideways at the gilded mirror beside the desk. She notices my peek and crumples her lips.

"The nurse is still in. Maybe you should go have that knock looked at," she suggests.

"A friend of mine is getting an icepack," I tell her, glad it's the truth. At least the pain relieving icepack part is true if not the friend part. Close enough. "It's fine. My mom will kill me if I don't talk with Mr. Wilcox today." I run a thumb against my sore cheek. "If she doesn't kill me for ruining my pretty face anyways that is." The secretary doesn't lightens up at my attitude, but at least she occupies herself with her job rather than my bruise.

"Well, what can Mr. Wilcox do for you?" she asks. I give her the line I've prepared.

"I want to go over what my scholarship entails. The qualifications I have to keep up with, that kind of thing." I watch her contemplating. She looks at the clock and then at her half spilled coffee. She bites her lip.

"Mr. Wilcox will be happy to see you. If you could just wait a moment, Miss Crock," she informs me in a sugary sweet voice. I smile broadly, ignoring the mild tenderness in my cheeks as I do so.

Looking for a seat, I notice another person. His tiny frame is sprawled across the ruby sofa which takes up most of the space in the adjoining waiting room. He has a mismatched cushion, apparently stolen from the black chaise at the corner of the room, hiding his head. The cord of an earbud set is weaved beneath the cushion to reach his concealed ears.

He is wearing the school uniform so I know he's a student; a student who has been stuck here since school let out and hasn't had time to change. Poor kid. Uniforms are not the most comfortable things to fall asleep in. I nudge him, accidentally if he asks, as I sit to his right.

He groans absentmindedly and shifts away. "Juhstuh menutt, Alfrudd," he unintelligibly mutters. Even underneath the muffling of the pillow, I can place Dick's voice. I should have known by his petite but muscular build. There aren't many kids like that. I guess it's a gymnast thing.

"Dick?"

"Mor rakker sa drovan," he whispers. His voice is crisp as if his seemingly meaningless words are a command.

"What was that? Move the pillow, I can't understand a word you're saying," I bark, my hands already wrestling away the cushion and throwing it across the room. I scoot myself far enough to see into the entryway. Luckily, the secretary, too busy packing up her things to go get another coffee from the cafe down the street, was unable to see my pillow toss. I leave Dick to retrieve the scattered pillow.

When I turn back around, I am completely unprepared for what I see. Dick, yawning, fingers his rumbled hair. Normally, he has his hair greased back, nothing but orderly for the son of Gotham's richest man. His ears look larger without his locks slicked over their tops. He blithely reaches his hand underneath the dark, designer sunglasses that hide a black eye and a reddish impression that looks vaguely reminiscent of a textured doge-ball. I guess I was late for that game of pila tapetum.

I can't stop starring at his bespectacled face. I can't stop feeling like an idiot. I'm not a sappy person. He and him knew each other in past lives? The reality of Hawkman aside, what was I thinking?

I am a realist and, realistically, the reason I feel like I know Dick is because I do know Dick. I know that impish, smug, petite, graceful, tech savvy, kindly boy wonder.

And he knows that I know now. I can see it. I can see it in the way he pulls his sunglasses from his eyes. In the way he calmly places them in his breast pocket. In the way he combs his hair back to normal with a flick of his wrist. In the way he raises his eyebrows and smirks. In the way reaches up from his short height to place a hand on my shoulder. In the way he talks to me.

"So, Arty, how whelmed are you today?"

A/N:

This isn't Artemis/Robin unless you guys want it to be? I'm open to suggestions.

Dick was speaking the Romani language which he learned from his parents; 'Mor rakker sa drovan' means "talk quieter".

Artemis would have ignore this command even if she had understood what he was saying. ;)