Chapter Text
“Who the hell is she?” Rose asked, and it was a valid question.
There was a woman in a wheelchair in the middle of Arty’s Kitchen. Artemis wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Tim was instantly on guard, hand going for the collapsible bo staff in his belt bag as they observed the mystery woman in the kitchen.
Sportsmaster himself wasn’t in sight, and Tim had double-triple-quadrupile checked that the man was out of the house tonight. Oddly enough, it seemed that Laurence would be away from home indefinately. (Tim was going to ask Artemis about that.) so, if Laurence wasn’t here, then none of his associotes should be either.
Artemis obviously hadn’t invited the woman. Artemis knew that Rose and Tim were planning to hang out with her, as was usual this time of the month. Thus, she was highly unlikely to invite anyone else over (given that Rose and Tim were themselves), and, even if she had, she would have given them a heads up. Or, at the very least, be here to make sure they don’t jump the gun and kill her guest. Whitch, at the moment, Tim was considering.
There was a stranger in Artemis’s home. A stranger in his sister’s home. A stranger that may pose a danger to himself, Artemis, or Rose. A stranger that could know too much about Artemis and her father. A stranger humming peacefully to herself and watching TV and, if the yarn beside her and needles that emerged from her siloette on occasion were any indication, knitting. A stranger who looked and acted like she belonged. A stranger in a wheelchair.
Rose gritted her teeth besides him, eye darting from him to the woman and back again. She was on the edge of striking the woman with a now withdrawn Katana, but she hesitated, which was very unusual for her. She was staring at him expectantly, clearly waiting for the Go Ahead, which he appriciated but was also suprised at.
Something was scratching at the back of his mind. Something similar had clearly struck Rose, thus her hesitation. Somthing had driven Laurence from his home and daughter indefinately. Something had brought the strange woman to his sister’s house.
What was he missing?
He creeped closer to the woman, carefully staying out of sight, crouching at an angle that he could see part of her face, illumated by the television.
She had long black hair, that looked like it hadn't been professionally cut in years, but oddly still seemed fairly well kept, or as well kept as it could be given the condotion. She had eyes that looked familiar, and now that he mentioned it, there was something familiar about her entire facial structure. He should really be able to place the woman. Her face was thinner then was strictly healthy, but she didn't seem malnorished to a harmful extent. she was doing little more then fidget with the yarn, seeming lost in thought, but her legs and feet remained still. seeing that she didn't have a cast, her wheelchair was either a misdirection, or she was disabled to some extent. Parapalegic some corner of his mind piped up, but went frustratingly silent when he sifted through his mind for why he was so certain of the fact and, more importantly, who she was.
he looked at her and tool one long blink, then a sharp intake of breath that he refused to classify as a gasp. he was too dignified to gasp, thank you very much. it wasn't even much of a shock. in fact, the conclussion had taken far too long to reach, given how obvious the answer was. He really ought to do better then this, the deduction had taken nearly seven minutes, according to his wrist watch.
He had better things to do then beat himself up for his own stupidity right then, however, as his gasp had snapped the woman out of her trance. she pulled a knife from some compartment in her wheelchair that must have been obscured in the low lighting, and threw it at him with a slight tremble. He dodged without even having to think about it, noticing that the aim of the dagger was off. She was clearly out of practice.
A quick glance to her was all he was able to give himself to make sure that she wasn't reaching for another blade, before he turned to the inniment issue; The woman's attack on him has surely set Rose off.
He had perfect timing (obviously), facing her just as she jumped at the wheel-chair bound woman. He gave an internal sigh as he tackled the other teen mid-roar. She was clearly confused by the attack, and he was touched that betrayal didn't even flash through her eye, jumping straight to a silent demand of an explanation. He sighed, glancing at the wide eyed woman watching, then back to Rose, then to her sword, and finally giving a small frown and shaking his head. She gritted her teeth, but her grip on the sword lossened ever so lightly and she gave a jerky nod. he gave a quick glare of warning, before rolling off of her, thankful she didn't go a more forceful route. He really wasn't in the mood to get his ass kicked right now.
"Who are you? What are you doing in my home?" The woman's voice rang (in a vietnemese accent that only damned him further) out before Tim had even turned to face her, purpouslfully placing himself between Rose and the woman. Rose noticed this (because for someone with one eye, she was deceptively perceptive) and he heard the quiet squeaking of leather that warned him that she balled her fists. She needed answers. He shot a glance at the scared-angry-wary-desprate woman, trembling slightly and adjusting her grip on the knitting needles he had suspected she had in clear preperation to wield them as weapons. she also needed answers.
The two women were glaring daggers at each other, Rose pissed that the woman had attacked her brother and the woman holding very little appriciation for their unwelcomed prescene. Tim, being a small child raised at the side of giant prescences, was intimently familiar with being ignored. Luckily, he was just as familiar with getting the attention he needs, on the occasion that he needs to. Thus, he had perfected clearing his throat in a manner that was no louder then it needed to be, and dignified in a way that clearing one's throat rarely is. he has to conciously fight the urge to reach up and adjust his tie, as he wasn't currently wearing one and the gesture would just look odd.
The glares were turned full forced to Tim. He kept from biting his lip by deflecting the glares with a salesman worthy grin, looking just a bit short of a smirk on his impish face. The boy took a deep breath in, steadying himself for this, taking a moment to mourn himself as he acknowledged how dead he was once Artemis was caught up on the situation, then turned his eyes to Rose.
"Ravenger, this is Mrs. Paula Crock, The Huntress." Tim clarified, giving an unnecassarily defeated wave at the woman, clenching his other hand so it didn't drag istelf down his face. Rose gave a low growl at the reveal, though that particular growl, Tim knew, meant she was angry with herself.
"No! I am not that person anymore." Paula denied vehemently, glare somehow intensifying further as she glowered at Tim. The boy only smiled back at her, grin turning a bit guilty at her outburst. It was obviously a sore subject.
"Yes ma'am. My apologies. Ravenger, this is Mrs. Paula Crock, who used to be The Huntress." He amended a little cheekily. He has never been a fan of getting yelled at.
Paula, apparently, noticed the slightly hostile tone to his voice. Coupled with Rose's growl at her reveal, she could be forgiven for taking it as a threat. The ex-villian's eyebrows knitted together as she placed the name that she undoubtably knew, by reputation if nothing else.
"Ravenger? As in Deathstroke's girl?" The woman inquired in a tone unique only to those who knew Slade personally. The tone that clearly had a 'why does that man have children' right beneath it. The tone he knew from his mother before he could even put a name to 'Slade's Spawn'. Rose nodded at the question, breath getting nearly imperceptively quicker at the mention of her father. Tim was impressed.
Paula thought on the matter for another moment, before a dark realization flashed through her eyes and she jumped to what was surely an unpleasent and inaccurate conclusion, if Tim had to guess.
"Did Lawernce send you?" The woman asked bluntly, and Tim called it. Her voice was chock full of a very familiar venom that made them both nearly flinch, eyes hardening in offence at such a thing being so much as suggested.
"No. He did not." Rose gritted out, leather sqeaking again, and Tim sighed. He didn't want to be here, mediating a conversation that should have ended before it began. They needed to figure out where Artemis ran off to.
"Mrs. Crock, where is Artemis?" Tim asked frostily, which was a bit aggressive for him. To be fair, one of his sisters was missing.
"What do you want with my daughter?" The woman demanded, which wasn't an answer, but her eyes flew to the stairs on instinct, which was. She thought that Artemis was still home, that she was upstairs in her room. That meant that she was useless to Tim's one-tracked-mind, that had long moved past the confrontation with Paula. His mind was already out the door tracking down Artemis, scolding himself for not bothering to check the window for signs someone had used it to leave. the pair of them coming in via the same window had probably rendered whatever clues up there moot anyway, he comforted himself, and by then his feet had started to make their way to the door without so much as another glance at Paula, some part of his brain assuming that Rose would just follow him when she was done, and making sure his departure was easy to see and track for his sister.
He was right, even if it took a minute. He slipped out of the door loudly enough to be heard if one was listening (which Rose always was). He looped around the building, looking for Artemis's window, identical to eye to the dozens of others on the apartment building to anyone not familiar with. It didn't have so much as a plant in the window, but if you looked closely there were nicks in the windowsill. This was not unique to the Crock apartment, most apartments in Gotham had some sort of damage. It was more like a finger print.
He fished night-vision enhanced binoculars from his belt bag, zooming in on approximately where Artemis's apartment is. He had gotten much better at spotting it out as he went to her home more and more, and by now was able to pick it out specifically among the others. There, the one two below the pink curtains, three to the left of the one with the probably illegal poppy plant. The one with the 11 arrow nicks on the window sill, paint of the frame a little molted where Tim had accidentally spilled acid once, a cut going through the left corner and an inch deep, a bullet dent or three, the distinct glint of reinforced bulletproof glass.
Tim smiled, planting himself right below the window. He put his binoculars back into the pouch, and giving himself the liberty of biting his cheeks in and thinking it all through. Where had Artemis gone? It was the third, but they were here a bit early, a few hours earlier then Tim was usually able to finish whatever busy body work Alexander gave him. Perhaps she was only out for a moment? But her mother clearly thought she was in her room. What could she be doing that she kept from her mother? His best guess was working with her father, but that made no sense. She hated the man, and he was pretty sure she'd take the first chance she could get to leave the family business. It was a worrying thought sometimes.
He heaved a sigh and pinched his nose, a bit more liberal with his movements now that he wasn't likely to be watched, and retrieved a LexCorp tablet from his belt bag. Artemis was going to kill him anyway, what's the harm in giving her a bit more incentive?