#traught week

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Artemis's new holdings were a far cry from her cozy townhouse in Palo Alto. There were a few essential differences from there to here. "There" was a dog named Nelson and a man who loved her and a heater for fuck's sake. "Here" was cold metal a thousand leagues under the sea and no one seemed to care that it was beyond freezing in this tin can.

Still, at least she got her own private quarters in this dumb submarine. The notion that she might actually drown never really settled well with her (back with the Team "Artemis Almost Drowning" was a running gag that sprouted its own page on TVTropes.org courtesy of Robin), but Kaldur had worked wonders with her nerves; not only had the Second Black Manta provided her with private room and board, but he'd spun some fantastical lie that she was his chosen lieutenant.

Somehow Kaldur's class must've trickled down to his underlings because none of them outwardly bore her ill will and treated her with the most unnerving degree of courtesy. She still expected one of them try and stab her in the back, but at least s/he got points for opening the door for her every so often.

She gave a curt nod to guards as she made her way to her room, combat boots clomping loudly on metal grid flooring. She didn't bother with stealth aboard the ship. Not when Kaldur had given her a rank and implied that she'd flaunt it.

As she slid into her room, she let the haughty slope of her shoulders droop. Artemis sunk onto her bed, casting her eyes desperately around the room. There was sparse decoration; Tigress didn't keep personal mementos (except one), she was cruelly efficient, as Black Manta II had impressed, his gaze sliding chillingly over each of his troops.

And that was why Artemis was getting swallowed up by this monster she helped create. There were times, when her memories wavered. When she touched the gemstone at her throat, sometimes- instead of seeing Nightwing, Kaldur, and Wally- she remembered her cover story: the necklace had been pulled from slashed throat of her first murder. And she wore it like a prize, like a warning to everyone that killing was her chosen sport.

As days lengthened into weeks and weeks blurred into months, it was harder to keep tabs on things. Artemis bit the crook of her elbow, using the sharp pain to pierce the haze and remember. She wished she had M'gann there to help her. The alien girl had a knack for finding the gnarled points in her mind and teasing away the tightly woven knocks of stress. And having Megs around would definitely solidify the notion that she was, in fact, Artemis, not Tigress. 

People would think that the life of a supervillain is composed of perpetual cycle of building herself up to her next big take over the world scheme, but in truth, there's a lot of down time. While Black Manta's men didn't do things like watch kitten clips on YouTube, they played Atlantean card games. They weren't so bad, once you got used to a new version of black jack that was bloated with unnecessary nuances. Tigress found herself smiling thinly across to the men in black armor, feeling at peace.

There were times she felt oddly sick at this new brand of camaraderie with these people. After all, they had tried to kill her (not her her, but Artemis her) on a beach in Cape Canaveral half a year back. But she couldn't help it. Now that she was among them, it was easy to fall into step with her Father's teachings. Those lessons of cruelty and savagery were engraved into her on some of the deepest levels of her psyche. And in this environment, it was a simple manner to readopt her old ways. (your father's ways, a feeble portion of her mind corrected.)

Her Commander had once touched her arm, in the privacy of a dark hallway. Tigress had given him a look. And the second Manta, instead of lifting his chin with poker face intact, had given her a troubled expression in return. 

"Are you... alright?" he had asked slowly. His words had been weighted with precision. Tigress had thought his inflection had been a little off.

She had cocked her head in a feline manner, scanning his face. "Of course," she replied, brows scrunching together in confusion. It fhad elt like she was missing something. Something fundamental. But she had dismissed the idea. Kaldur'ahm was very clear when he articulated something, something she admired in him; communication was important in an unit this large.

He had answered her frown with one of his own, before nodding and disappearing from sight. Tigress had been left with an unpleasant feeling squirming in her belly. But Kaldur'ahm trusted her beyond his regular jugheads. He'd tell her if something were really wrong wouldn't he? (not if he thought you were the one in jeopardy)

Tigress counted the victories her squadron made against the Justice League with glee, and cursed vehemently when their plans were foiled.

It was strange, when, a year after entering Black Manta's service, she found out that L'gaan was dead. Killed after an experimentation run afoul.

Lagoon Boy was dead.

He was a part of the Team. M'gann loved him. And he was dead.

She couldn't bring herself to care.

That's when something cold and icy swallowed her heart. Was she panicking? Or was she accepting what she was now? (you can't run from who you are)

Her steps were disjointed from her brain, but she managed to make it to her private quarters with some grace. The heavy door slid shut behind her and she stood in semi-darkness, her gut churning with something that wasn't quite guilt (maybe apathy).

When she stumbled to the sink, she gripped its steel sides with her and looked dolefully up at the mirror. She was herself, in the reflection: flaxen hair, circles under her eyes. For a long moment, she stared.

A decision came to her.

She had to get away. This mission was proving too much to handle for her. She was steadily losing bits and pieces of herself, like an old car falling apart, leaving rusted parts of itself behind on the road. She couldn't let herself degenerate. She couldn't let her dad win.

Manta's craft would come to port in less than five hours. There, she could make her escape. Kaldur would understand.

She stuffed her spare suits into the case Nightwing had given her. It'd compress her clothes and make traveling light. Her stomach clenched. Nightwing.

Little Robin was a big boy now. He was leading the Team (and helping coordinate the League in the absence of near half of its members). And he was relying on her for help. It was a heady rush. Identical to the one she had gotten when he had smiled and said, "It never mattered. You aren't your family. You're one of us." Her heart sputtered at the thought.

"Tigress?"

She dropped the suitcase, whirling toward the door. She opened it a crack, schooling her expression. A guard had his faceplate down, so she could make out her faint reflection on the polished surface. Her stomach lurched again. To her credit she was sure her air of cool disdain didn't falter for more than half a second.

"The Commander wishes to speak to you in Control Center immediately."

Tigress- Artemis- nodded and shut the door. In a rare instance of weakness, she pressed her back against the cool metal, sliding down to the floor. She cupped her face in her hands, evening the slow intake and exhale of circulated oxygen pumped through the vents. She thought carefully about the ventilation system, how it recycled carbon dioxide into breathable air for the benefit of the crew.

She cautiously lifted her head, feeling her despair close her throat, even as she fought it back.

The suitcase-

It... was cracked? Although it looked like it was crafted from reinforced steel, Artemis spied a thin crack running up the side facing the ceiling from where it lay.

That seemed... wrong.

Nightwing was a perfectionist. He would've prepared nothing but the best. He had, after all, provided her with a set of very form-fitting Tigress uniforms (she didn't muse over how he had gotten his hands on her measurements; the thought caused faint heat gather in her cheeks) and all her necessary equipment (it was endearing how he paid attention to the small details, like a left-handed crossbow and steel-toed boots).

So, this tiny, insignificant oversight seemed too big of to be overlooked. (It made complete sense if you knew Nightwing.)

Carefully, she reached out and pulled the case toward her. Her fingers followed the crack, finding a well concealed latch on the bottom of the case. There was a slight tremble in her fingers as she pressed the release. Something very closely related to adrenaline coursed through her veins. Nightwing always had a plan, he always did things unexpectedly, straight of left field. It was reassuring. Like having a guardian angel watching over her. One that had grown out of his habit of cackling at her misfortune.

She was almost smiling as- with a small hiss- a portion of the outercasing came apart from the rest. 

Her lips parted, eyes widening with surprise. Something warm and hot and crackling  like electricity was coiling in the pit of her belly. She couldn't abandon the mission now. She had to see it through till the end, so she could properly kick his ass without feeling guilty.

With shaking fingers, she raised a glossy polaroid. She could remember it. And she nodded to herself, her head still dizzy from the revelation, making a promise to herself.

"We will laugh about this someday."