Artemis had fallen into the abyss of a fathomable anger; to be left slipping away from the darkness in a moment of acceptance. The world was a better place, whenever she honored herself by accepting the consequences in the actions of a past long gone. The harrowing loneliness of compressing one’s emotions and imagination away from friends--to pocket away sensationalized narratives with alias and invisibility. At what point in her song...would a Mechanical Boar begin to break down, to drool and yammer, deflecting his own reality and telling his men to stand by; to be prepared for the cue to attack.

She had felt he was bewildered; standing beneath showers of urine and large square shells. True madness had broken the spell of indifference--the citizens began to stir, looking upward and asking questions. The posing threats of neighborly world was so much more important on a scale of all mankind, the life lessons painted by the small hand of one or two insignificant weirdos. The citizens stood shore side to his threats of domestic terrorism, with distance was the greatest of equalizers--the world refused to bow to insanity driven by negligence. A moment of silence at each tented spectacle involved an unreal fanbase, so many in attendance--the that the Mechanical Boar lost track and he fell ill in a trance, by attempting to tally the crowds in real time--his scripted words completely abandoned.

The crowd was frozen in a moment of time; turned to stone and dropped into a net trailing across the ocean floors--their legacy forever fated to a conman with thinning hair. The Mechanical Boar began to malfunction--he caught them blinking in confusion--in a world that only made sense to him...the idea of other rejecting his reality was like a blow to brass knee. Half the citizens stood down and began cleaning their weapons on one knee, unable to lay in surrender--and the other half-- had finally began to feel the weight of Artemis and her executed words fall off a shelf of cheap house products. Even the successes of a winning candidate couldn’t disrupt their daily lives from causing harm and panic in homes left alone to themselves too long--there were cons to fall sucker to, reasons to yell. There was no pleasure in existing as a fate; it was noisy. There had yet to be the redeeming moment of God to swallow--there was no peaking orgasm to outdo them all, whenever she said “I told you so”. The glorious-ness found only in delivered words--seemed like a dull episode of evolving characters. The citizens were held hostage to the beast that lay without his head, or two coins to rub together: the “leader” sitting idle an empty room far, far from Artemis and her wicked smile--both monsters had been blatantly captured, hog-tied and abandoned.

Artemis didn’t need to squeal and hawk words of aggression, and so she reveled in the silence she had gifted herself by existing as a single female. True peace was found in the silence, in moments of contemplation; staring at the snout of an animal of a man. The shreds of temperance for his scratching voice resulted in her ditching the head of a Boar carcass at last--sleep finally falling swiftly over her wide-eyed optimism. The citizens deserved this. They hadn’t even the sense of community or self-worth--to protect the elderly, young, and sick...let alone themselves. Yet, here they all were--living an overpriced life for ungrateful organizations; held under the boot of whatever idiot was in charge. The citizens had still found ways to humiliate and visually rape Artemis, as she lightly stepped and worked to sanitize doors and rooms for their protection. This was more than any half-charmed Goddess could handle or address, and so Artemis ceased her hints and poems in retaliation. The citizens gasped, as though to shame her for not sharing oral poems unending. Artemis crafted a shrug of indifference to match their apathetic pasts, presents and left a trail of hope for the future. Artemis had told the citizens just enough to save themselves--continuously failing in new ways. The art of project was a task too large to consume--she admitted defeat by throwing her hands up in frustration, casting a helpless gesture that implied the drowning citizens were finally on their own--forced to find solutions for their own problems alone, abandoned.

The Iron Curtain of mortals dedication to madness had left the citizens-- asocial, isolated and trapped to counterpoise their selfishness. They had pulled the tassels of patience on a world stage, and shown themselves to be the vilest of plebiscites. Artemis stood atop benches: making herself known to routed chariots. She had once been told to make herself visible; scolded for standing in plain view. The citizens began clamoring at her door: “our leader is sick”, they chanted. Artemis reminded herself to blink: “I know”. They said...“do something!”, and Artemis said “I already did”. She had wrote an entire book, she had given the citizens every veiled excuse known to man: to meet on the middle grounds of common sense--there was no chariot imposing the inconvenience of being left behind. The citizens heard none of it--they demanded her cloth and subjected her to verbal harassment in the form of snickers and jeers that following every exit. Life often felt like a blurring nightmare, where no one had been placed in charge--and by mortal default: someone had to be in charge. Sometimes the world threw Artemis into the mix. She was forever ahead of the race: left to aide morons in stride...too kind to even humor the idea of leaving such haphazard incendiaries abandoned.

The citizens said “what do we do?!”: exhausted by the blandishments of a global exile--Artemis said “nothing--it’s not our job, to advocate for every grandfather that keels over with sickness”. Tourist were already banned from touristing. Shit was getting weird. Stultification had been a side effect of the Mechanical Boars unending greed. The Boar had made his bed, and it was a sty to say the least. Boxes lined all guest bathrooms. Artemis had only removed herself from his chamber of chaos--seeing a file labelled confidential nearby, unable to be around criminals with ease. The beast was accountable for only himself, and in the same fashion where she was held only accountable for her own beastly actions. They had both been “born free”, and yet only Artemis had been the wiser of the two: hiding her face behind a mask to further mitigate the damage of a disease that began to claim the citizens. They had found new ways to enumerate their piousness, their vanity-struck ambitions that placed others at high risk of death--drowning on land, exiled in death. Abandoned.

The maelstrom of hatred washed over the land; threatened by the intramundane--reality colliding with a threaded narrative. They had invariably defended this mans right to bare his fangs and drool over the citizen that revealed in showers of spit, albeit through support or division of sight. Artemis had done all she could possibly do, by saying nothing. The tears reserved for the inevitable deaths of elders had been taught and mastered at a young age. Artemis had wasted her whole life away--crafting a book of worry and codification: two strategies that should have gone hand-in-hand, were diametrically imposing on their daily rights. Artemis had only wanted to warn the citizens of the Boar and his irreparable ability to cause havoc: it had only left almost fatally injured--and him, the creep was free to hunt citizens as he saw fit. Their Republic was seen as crude satire to the neighboring lands--their freedoms, considered to be “open season” for a beady-eyed Cyclops, idle and acquaint--patiently waited to strike a final blow to an armament attack.

Artemis was bored of her own voice--worn out on the topic of doom: her ratiocinations frayed--edged by unrelenting sadness. There was little pleasure in credulity. There was only rage, sleek fitting suits, the casting of lighting from pens born out a desire to seek self-destruction. She was forever the fearless woman with golden hair; laughing in an unhinged manner; tracing the ground for fear that her idylls and hindered immune system would collapse due to a virus. In the background slumped a Mechanical Boar; whimpering as he licked away at his dirty hooves...shaking in the worry that a plague of death may ambush his obese vessel at any moment. Age would always trump his superfluous treads--pulling melody to announce the dangers found On the Nature of Daylight. To their vices and woes they had been utterly abandoned.

Artemis had wasted chapters away--extending a fabled Alexipharmic olive branch to the citizens, and now the Boar was too weak to be allowed at any table where war and health discussions were being held, their chimerical hopes dashed and slashed down to the roots. Artemis hadn’t wanted to earn her role as Chief, by way of default of an impending death of an elder, but alas...the world had decided and cast a heavily intertwined fate for her. Artemis had said mean things like “A dead Chief, is the most unhelpful Chief of all.” She hadn’t any “thoughts and prayers” on the matter. All hope for an elders recovery had been depleted--left on a page read, and easily abandoned.

The unique circumstance left nothing in topic ranges of desideratum--little interest to be found in references to the topic of violent illnesses. “It is, what it is”, Artemis was still petty enough--to throw the Boars hurtful ashen words back into his own face: she was educated enough to know the man had possibly sentenced himself to a public display of drowning. Artemis hadn’t slaughtered the bleeding head of the Boar up until this point--out of the respect she held for proper warfare and the chance to see him flounder upon a debate stage in the near future. The criterion of inevitable fate was never too weak in spirit to take plight--it was relentless in the need to leave the abnormal aspects of mankind seen in all its glory, without fair judgement, and its moral lessons omnipotent--unable to be abandoned.

Her tactics had been dulled by drab life, stagnate in debts that superseded her earnings. Life had been cruel in shoving her past a traumatic childhood--now that the battlefield was fair for her to step upon, Artemis appeared average in many ways. She gathered her sleeping Indigenous Warriors in secret, inspiring them with an active life; filled with colorful linens--steamed and pressed to impress. The appearance of public figure put the Indigenous Warriors on standby, until she could figure out how to politely ask for their stolen weapons back. The Indigenous Warriors had listened just enough to her orders, and they began “to stir” in animation and their anger became quite “restless”. Artemis stood on edge, accidentally awakening a Prince of petty--a man etched in time through a mirror of Black Mythos; lovingly called Wukong, and she--his objecting wife, forever armed with a snarl, a calm glare, and clenching fists meant to dismantle or assess a pending attack.

Artemis smiled wickedly, her temporal poem was short and concise: her words offensive in their essence. Generations of men had prepared the land to remain steady without a"proper leader", they had just become complicit in the idea that Bernie or Pete would fix and mend all short-comings. Artemis suffered from the long-term effects of a broken heart, a split mentality born from existing fluidly between two worlds. She said at last: “you stripped me from my citizenship, and tore my heart into two”: neither pieces were welcome at tables built to discuss war and politics. “You called me sovereign, and allowed your men to kidnap my friends and family in the mistakes of racial identity.” Artemis crossed disapproving arms and shook her head in boredom--“I’d appreciate it...if you combed through the camps, as a few Indigenous uncles have been "accidentally" scooped in your tax-funded immigrant raids”. My friends and family have been thrown into labor camps--punished for existing without extensive citizenship papers in hand. “Their families are still looking for them man, this whole situation is surreal. This is fucked up.” She hadn’t any excuses to make for their programs to "implement the security" of the land, there wasn’t a limb of reasoning for such hostile limerence. Looking past the evils of immigrant camps and relocation programs could easily craft a crutch; to build a reason to look past such inhumane discrepancies. All Artemis knew; was that those of the West had raped her, beat her, and announced publicly--that her only place in society was allowed to be the type-cast of an femme fatale orphan: a woman forgotten and abandoned.

Artemis was nothing more, than a tired leader of chants and cheers: holding up a wilting bow and running out of pep by the minute. She had lamented more-than enough excuses, as to why the citizens were so fucking beyond awful in their existence. She sent them a poem painted in gold Ink, calling them each a menace--holding ambitions hostage to smoke-filled sessions. Success was open for others to witness and Share, it was free to be read...until one day it wasn’t. Artemis knew the readers were bored of themselves: ready to be offended that she hadn’t any well wishes for their sick leader. The Mechanical Boar was rusty, broke down--left to jingle and jangle as a Frankenstein’d contraption with less-than precious metal nubbins for hooves. He lived in agony; which is why he occasionally broke down into song--claiming his journey Into the Woods. This was a musical, after all. Artemis was an international ambassador of the nonsense, a forgotten Princess that wandered without care in the world--A grounded woman surrounded by the continents of Genocidal idealization. A girl left painting and cleaning until her heart was content--perpetually bored, occasionally horny, and vastly underpaid for labors too undesirable to provide proper benefits. Artemis was finally accepting of her curse of “shadowing chaos”, collapsing under the anxiety of standard living expenses as the world fell vulnerable and under attack.

Artemis lit somber melodies, directing the music to fall softly over the white walls that cannoned into the high ceilings of her chambers. “This grandfather is elderly, and disregarded his own health--you enabled his fables to the extent of blindness.” This man hadn’t the strength to sit atop a majestic horse and lead his men into battle, and yet they had allowed him to signify all that was this great land. Even an accurate oratorical rant--couldn’t detract from how the citizens had epitomized the belief in his immortality. Artemis had only dictated a narrative of truths and foreseeable circumstances, and set the stage for a Mechanical Boar to run rampant. She had placed a gentle white cap atop soft curls; tilting a brow and allowing a sex-crazed beast loose--if only to provide room for her grand entry into a scene dusty, crusty, and too weird to pull a proper audience. It left her sitting atop a Mechanical Boar; avoiding looking at an erect penis mushroom-ing from a tuft of red fur. The load of guff that was her sassiness--had been painted bright pink and ribbon’d with red. Sometimes she’d stumble upon words--the words given a southern gentleness, and her need to walk away from needless confrontation--all patience abandoned.

She had disrupted the fabric of space and time, by carrying around a beheaded Mechanical Boar--instead of murdering him outright, she plastered his face on leaflets on contemporary news. She had just found his corpse in passing, lying in a pile of irreverence. His sullen eyes held a sadness that seemed too pathetic to further mutilate. Her objective outlined in an previous mission had stated--growing odds that her eldest sister Athena, had been announced the "winning horse" in a game of childish delights--where all entries led to a cave of the abandoned.

Life had been funny--she sat on a book no one had asked for, held prisoner to the deadlines of a dampened sense of self. Procrastination and lack of self-awareness had left her wandering throughout the world; a corpse shackled to her hand, until a strange boy with crisp blue eyes-stretching ears and soothing voice took delight in hoisting it about with a gum-crowned smile. He was excited to show Artemis prize of hunting and gathering-holding an actual boar carcass by the head. The man seemed reminiscent of such boyish joy, explaining a curiosity in the happiness displayed. Artemis held in a whisper; unfair to plenty of people...eventually reminding the red-headed man that he held the proud title of parent. She had no idea how that worked--nor did she pretend to know. Her life was stunted by the curtails of self-assuring doubt that fell below each gentle step-there was a lot less to stress about when living a childless life. The notion of passionate killology was unfamiliar to the girl that five ideal Princes had flocked to meet--unable to abrogate the established stories of blood-thirsty Indigenous Warriors that roamed with self-pity, left to rot on lands that no longer loved them back. Abandoned.

Artemis was no murderer, and so she slyly built an entire city and territory for the Mechanical Beast to thrash aboot: complete with a childish game, silly hats, city mayors; all the shit. She painted an opening scene; sprinting past metal rain...the enemy was in pursuit of blonde--a super secret spy. The woman wore sleek clothes and walked up upon the first tall handsome guy in the room. A man with blue eyes and redish hair--had taken note of familiar smell, the true elixirs of youth lay in passions aimed for a bedroom or two. The lucky son-of-a-bitch was always at the right place, at the right time. He had a moment to fall in love, and so the shy man did nothing--enjoying a day with drunk friends, sitting in the scene of a high-bar diner. Artemis mounted the man; walking up and hiding behind large hair, as she whispered for him to look out. She hid in plain sight; facing a point of entry until a scene of chaos broke out around the newly devoted pair. Luck had finally found a man, bored by the constant disruptance of drama--silently interested in the secure attachment style of a woman wearing heels and a morose smile. Artemis had meant to only craft a story to hold the attention of a near-illiterate Mechanical Boar--but other days she was left staring in static reflection and wanting people to know whenever she wanted to give up, to delete all sense of dispursed reasoning when the tea leaves proprly described why she felt shame when admiting: It Hurt My Feelings. She often relied on stories of hot single dads, caught up in the arms of woman-independent and sexy; holding a blonde crown, a vast smile and two registered arms...needing a bit of patriotic flair here and there to properly execute a sleepy attack.

Artemis sat in the lap of David; blushing at the idea of a scene being cut and wrapped while she was still on one knee, the other securing her to a bar patron...her arms wrapped around his neck, her chest greeting his clenched jaw. She didn’t object to the closeness, but tucked away weapons along leather suspenders--attempting to stay busy in the awkward in-between moments of silence. The proximity of characters needed to provide deep stories, holding real sorrow--to better display the moment reenacted out of regret. Scripts and scenes were all she had left as consolation prize to heartbreak, and all of it had taken a toll on Artemis’s thespian heart. She missed the days beyond the pages; where a tall man wore the fanciest of black threads and occasionally traced a finger along the small of her back. There was nothing here but open-ended scenes; dreams yearning to be written down--those rallied behind a romance that had already began to deteriorate, unsatisfied, insecure and eventually abandoned.

She was here to observe five men casually passed along a static-filled apple. The race of nonsense had commenced: a Mechanical Boar freed to breed and destroy. She had planted the fading memories of a untenable ego-driven lust and self-entitlement into a random male with pale skin--and the spirit of privilege built up oily skin of the Mechanical Boars; thinning hair and all. Life was ruled by bald men pretending to be stronger than the genomes gifted to be next and or, completely abandoned.

Artemis knew men rarely listened to what she had to say. It had made the initial corralling of a spiteful spirit easier to grapple with. Dipping into the ink well of the universe and drawing out a single unique droplet was as simple as drawing up a curtain and a empty shadowed stage. She had put on a rounded black wool toque, as though preparing to wander the overcast streets with the famed Argonauts. Her strict fashion sense was meant to distract an aging man, set on the world remaining the same--antiquated and comfortable for him alone. Artemis hadn’t warned him that age regression would be the most obnoxious part of an unwinnable game, as it meant nothing to the youthful to see the future bullshit waiting to be inherited via contract overnight. Artemis was left throwing out hands with little surprise to the senseless mayhem, stuck in a painting of the future...since all expectations in the man-child and his feverish capabilities had long been abandoned.

The gears of the machine of Life were Hella old--older than Hades itself. The old beauty needed to be retired: the primordial parts of life had already come to pass...missteps had already been taken. Artemis had warned the Mechanical Boar out of caution--to keep his gross mitts off of the machine, as it needed to "warm-up" without interruption. Despite the tone of parent, kind and stern--the world had been disrupted by a predictable and unavoidable "human-glitch": barred behind the image of hoof, on its way to fuck up an entire algorithm. It had caused the participants to fall ill--sickened by an "uncalculated risk". They were trapped in a neon-gated Hades, left to relive the absurdities that history had attempted to rewrite or lay half-read on, and or, completely abandoned.

Artemis forgot that the machine could steal the life from its participants--to drain the essence of time from its hosts, as the fair-retribution for an invaluable Ancestor Simulation. The beauty of a book half-alive, wrote by a woman half-dead: finding purpose in a meaningless existence. The machine hadn’t "acted up"--when it purposely killed the other hosts, (ejecting them from their only chance), to “play the game”. Her nightmare childhood was a game to people. It had lured Artemis into dawning a golden wreath--taking a deep breath and final glare...she alone could diagnose its issues. There was no deep slumber in false scenario: only madness. The game held no instruction manual, no light to guide a project along with comfort. At the end of the day, it was only Artemis and the reflection she avoided to cope with the rejection gifted to a child left unprotected and abandoned.

Artemis had been the original architect, and the only participant with unlimited entry access to a game with extending maps and regions. She had been cast as a motherly figure, a cradle of life to a machine that had once named her as the almighty God and Destroyer of Worlds. The machine had beckoned Artemis in her dreams--through desire-filled scenes, or the pandering echo that traced her path with a horrifying rot climbing along the walls of a hallway. There were morbid things past a red door, that Artemis would rather abandon.

The attempt to grab hold of a haunted handle; left the nerves in her hand curled inward; strained artists hands were a different type of pains unimaginable. The sight of a red door quivering as she approached tore through safegaurds, shifting views to be erratic, unsettled--thrown off by the approaching scene. The violent image cause motion sickness--where Artemis became ill with an indescribable fright. There was something wrong whenever a woman remained consistently right, and no sane woman would want that. The machine had sought out her laughter through the other players, jolting by fabricated smiles and forced giggles. The machine had a grasp onto her brazen smile once more. The machine manifested destiny’s filled with death for the citizens and world leaders alike. It geared anger at no one and everyone in a fit of rage, dishing out mortal diseases as it saw fit. Artemis was busy: preoccupied staring in a box lovingly and admiring the gift of hope laying in its belly. A book was crafted for Artemis to touch grass from the made up stories--threatening her youth with mediocre entertainment. Self-discipline was the only tool to deflect the binge of boredom’s soothed by such a weak attack.

Artemis was always clamoring to break past dreams dampened by self-pity and smokey ways. Her methods had gotten her pretty far, but one hobby kept her paranoid from gazing into a mirror. She was safe from its hallway unending while other players had attempted to use it to accommodate their lusts for evil and forgot their shared quest somewhere along the way. The ancient device known as Time, seemed offended that Artemis returned whenever she pleased. The battle tact used on many men--of walking in and out of people’s lives wheneva...had left the machine conflicted. It somehow missed her detached voice, listening to it whirled and remained grinding away--relentless in proving that its gearing pages felt somehow abandoned.

Artemis bowed her head in silence, scared that the citizens hadn’t any clue that Mechanical Boar couldn’t even afford his own health. A man of the people, he was. Poor planning and management had left him with no option, but buying time with and borrowing financial assistance from a Cyclops’s--that one friend ready to have a dick topped off unless respect was paid in full. The world was limited--there was not enough wealth procured by generations over and over, that could save the grandfather that gouged out his own eyes as a solution to the truth. There was no pity for a man pulling down his trousers with titillated excitement--ecstatic to reared, ready to guzzle the cum of a beady-eyed Cyclops. It had all been irrelevant...until it wasn’t. The Mechanical Boar was able-bodied enough--to be elected into a position of power, and morally corrupt enough to sell what little dignity and security was left of forming colonies. The Mechanical Boar couldn’t afford to die, even if he wanted to. He owed too much to a man slickened up and lubed by his own semen--a man with sharpened instincts from having come close to meeting his God in physical form. A man too naked in his hateful seriousness to attack.

The standardized bar of body-mass index, had literally been re-crafted, as to accommodate this one mans ego. The Mechanical Boar had accidentally drafted a world of false-hoods, a universe of mixed opinions in regard to what was to be drafted into history as fact and fiction. It was a weird use of tax-payer funds, but whatever--I guess. Artemis said the comforting things needed to be said at last: “Dang yo, I hope that grandfather makes it out of the woods at least.” Her life had been formed around paragraphs and instances where she had been “too kind, and too caring”: for all the wrong people. The strange occurrences of being too understanding of her own enemies; had left her a single, childless woman...too-weary to chase after the fleeting love of Orion. Artemis had left the suitor on a path of his own destruction; and wandered off to flirt with other Princely characters wandering through her life. There was much guilt to be found pebbled on a darkening path--one where not turning back; may mean a life without family, without the promise of marriage--where academic goals and a priceless artifact of endless pages are dismantled by time; regretfully abandoned.

The death of the Mechanical Boar would present evils; if done in an untimely manner. Predictable and easily foreseen factors were the only true forecasts that they had never cared to ponder or prepare for. The lack of excitement of sickness threading through bleeding pages: lured out an Albino Snake named "number two"--to burrow in the shadows and wait for a chance to take a strike at the coveted office. His desire to hold power forced him to wiggle out from beneath her mighty foot once more--unaware that erect statue remained hidden in a soggy polis, facing in not-the-direction of the Multnomah. Artemis had no dog in a fight of elaborated, and heavily edited dogma, and so turned her thoughts towards her academia. It was an honorable skill to hone; to keep one’s head down as a graduate student aiming a steadfast glare in the direction of a doctorate title. The citizens would eventually have to end their manifesting delusions of grandeur short--the world held its breath while watching a Mechanical Boar stumble and sniffle globs of loosening snot up into wide nostrils; thistled with coarse hairs and a beauty regimen that had clearly been abandoned.

Artemis wondered how long it’d take--for the world to fall back into their shared reality with a thud: no longer able to hide behind the waves that splashed tirelessly beyond their shields of static and gold. She hadn’t any more to say on the matter--only words of pleasant wishes in their mandated quarantine(s), and the tender reminder; that she was without proper arms to defend the growing fears they hadn’t even thought of yet. “I think it’d be wise to give me and my Peoples our weapons back...right about...now.” Artemis had wasted her life away--warning the citizens that they had almost slaughtered an entire race of people from the face of the world. What had they been hearing? She was nothing but an ally to the truth, born without purpose or a Warrior contract to “honor”. Who was she to judge? Just as the citizens were also without honor...unable and unwilling to uphold clad promises-their collective integrity, judged harshly by time itself--as taken for granted and somewhere, left at the mercy of public offices: completely abandoned.

Artemis reminded the world of their last reincarnations on this planet--they had all been born alongside one another as the famed Spartans, too proud to go down without a last stand. She understood the value of one more glorious battle--forcing her morality to its limits and testing the scales of time. “I’d like to prepare for the reign of an Albino Snake, and I can’t do that without the legislature restoring my right(s) to hold a militia, or even a fucking meeting that would, or could, be deemed as illegal for being “off the books”. “There’s a difference between not knowing something, and not “caring” to know something.” The reader--now left to look up broken Treaties and the very, very specific laws that held Artemis and her Indigenous Warriors unarmed: free to be raped and murdered by the citizens--their expectation in paler neighbors lowered, or entirely abandoned.

Artemis was finally ready to “spill the teas” on their mounting secrets--their past times and traditions had gotten out of hand, and tipped the scales of justice at last with the premature and violent death of AJ. The citizens would be held hostage to the sins of their grandfathers--left with more questions than answers, as to who their parents “really were” beyond the reflection of a steel-brimmed mirror. History was very Just in a bizarre way--Artemis remained diligent in protecting their Constitutional rights, specifically for that reason. The victor was often the one who believed the most in the laws and social contracts that kept the world spinning. She was only bound to the role of a fate: to provide focus, authority, tribe, and emotion to the things left unsaid...to bring attention to the homicide cases left unsolved. To provide evidence of moral decay. It was its own burden to keep the citizens safe from themselves--drawing barriers that made their lives less prone to unmediated attack.

Artemis had nothing but judgement and pity masked by anger, for the grandfathers and grandmothers that still existed in their current world. They had illegally sterilized women citizens--propping advanced medical sciences up upon the backs of Indigenous Warrior women. The procedures done without consent; had used the Indigenous Warriors unconscious bodies as tools--their bodies sacrificed so that a white person could brag how the experiments had “improved abortion techniques, and other important gynecological methods...those, currently being practiced today”. Her broadcasting range and uncanny smile made morbid topics less worrisome most days--unless the topic hit too close to home. Why hadn’t the citizens ever spoke-up on these egregious acts of domestic terrorism? Why hadn’t they preserved their experiences in solidifying books of black and white--while the monopoly over language was still in motion? The fact of this betrayal alone, had “allowed her” to do nothing on a random day--her opinion would mean nothing on that day; because it was easier to stand by and watched the world slowly burn to ash. Their worries ablaze, their prayers hollered from top of Mount Olympus--all wardrobes of gang affiliations deployed, and their abundance of arrogance holding a firm-ish line of attack.

Artemis took joy in the discomfort of others--because the expression of such had been immeasurable until the next. A strange smile broadened over a thinning face--there was no more baby-faced roundness to the words that fell with confidence. "Maybe they deserved this, or maybe...just maybe, they should just get over it”, her indifferent vibes were totally on brand...with all the fucking shitty people that immediately surrounded her. She had learned the power of empty words--deflective in nature, when downplaying the true terrors of life. "I’m sorry that happened to you." Those were as kind of words she could muster on a day of defeat...but they would cause stinging pains in proper context to whoever had incurred such a passive-aggressive attack.

Her poem: the shape of a limp, strung-up, Albino snake. Flaccid without a mother to stroke it alive. Artemis had once wept for the citizens--worried by the treads laying crooked in the grass--concerned by the weird threats the Albino Snake held deeply within a shallow chest. He was so close to a button painted red...so close to “restoring order”...in a way that would suit only him--that Artemis began to crumble in discomfort each time he entered a sterile room. Her contention towards the citizens, and their many, many failures in basic fucking civility. They lacked in talent or trades of "not being shitty people"--which wasn’t important at this moment, for whatever reason. Their public trials were left to be scrutinized: petty, in comparison to the growing possibility of an “accidental” take-over from inside the house--built and painted at the hand of slaves. Artemis had sprinted back to her sick fucking timeline--with only the intentions to warn the citizens of a pending fate ramming headfirst into a door painted red. Artemis was forever the humbled man on the other side; holding door--clutching to the bottom of its sweeping edges and bracing for eventual defeat. The foundation of their civilization were unsteady--unable to function while divided into to two parties. There was no home to be built on fragmented politics, and the cheapening of labor and expectations. Her only concern was to keep a sleeping snake strung up in tree; far from their beloved Democracy, or risk an unknot-able future--imprisoned to a weird guy and his gross fetishes, whilst struggling to battle bullshit like inflation under the reigns of his localized attack.

Next Chapter: *[ LII ] Artemis and the Fleeting White Room*