Artemis hated the unmitigated static in her mind: the river of information flitting by was a direct causation of the darkness that had followed her from Hades. "Fuck it." Artemis would always about-face, to kneel over in defeat: armed with apologies and enthusiastic blinding hope in the causes left unturned. The was a unique loneliness left in her echo of proliferated madness. Comfort in self, came with a sobering opinion and encompassing trait of standards. Morals were the accessories of the mightiest of Warriors. Artemis had born with the Yurok name royal one, first to dive into the flames, and the only one able to dawn a feathered crown and observe the colorful hues and hints of law.

Artemis often cast glares and grunts of understanding; holding blunt estrangement from civility through choices of indifference. She’d evoke audiences of the most prominent caliber with an amalgam of mumbles and grumbles: swinging her arms frivolously through the air...drifting about and allowing her music to blast. Laughter and dance had healed the exorbitant damage to her heart. A curling smile would mensurate the intentions of her chaotic thoughts--she’d ramble of proprietary information; more precious than a bartered sales tag--humming sweetly and listlessly, throwing out a sequence of numbers meant to ablate the facade of a man that believed he was born to afflict the world with his position as a dictator to that of kleptocracy law.

Artemis preferred intricate and gentle dancing, as opposed to sitting like stone--admiring the slight flick of air whisking past her fingers. Pages of predetermined fates, gave a slight relief from all that was reality. Her book had been crafted specifically to avoid the negative connotations of the term "disruption"--since such cheap tactics were easily replicated. The choice to opt for a slow-and-steady process of modified words--resembled a prevailing round of rituals; wrapped in red curtains and anticipating the blaring lights. Artemis often took to the challenge of being caste center stage--often gambling steadily-handed against Murphy’s Law.

Artemis would sway and hum to herself; embarking on a series of numbers meant to warn a fulsome audience; weary as to whether or not to stand in ovation. One-four-four...one-two-eight fluted and swirled in her mouth in different melodies...a song cast with a glare towards a shadow standing in the back row of her auditorium--as though summoned by her skills in provoking conflict, or hedge the at the first sights of collision paths ahead. Artemis was casting a childish spell, casually threatening a polemical and aging man--forever with his nipples to the wind; sitting saddled to an unlucky beast. Artemis wasn’t intimidated by threats of dox or kompromat. She was opposite in ethics, without being the opposition--to the other slew of other luck-less sons-a-bitches....them basic-ass political leaders, trapped in a pay-to-play game. Bloodshed and greed was all that was promised by a compromised battlefield. This had been the worst of worst, scenarios; a set stage where one authority was upheld as universal law.

She’d pout, exhausted from the contemplation needed to address an impoverished and undignified past--their shared dilemma made Artemis unable to vie with his violent jurisprudence. Unlike the avarice of the balding monster and his beady near-set eyes...Artemis, had taken a position in public service to find revel in success. The monster-in-charge, had taken a role with the soul intentions to impose methods of extreme scouting; political surveillance. Artemis had observed him plotting to sweep in a rule of despotism, under feathered excuses--of wanting to protect the citizens from themselves. She had first found him tucked away; in a dimension that stood on the corner of the universe--the beastly mortal, pocketing the federal funds of "fair tithe"--for his efforts in serving the public, obviously. Welfare was raided; whole civilizations pillaged--with the assistance of a man that had enabled the first offenses of "mutual support". Artemis grumbled to herself: his apostasy had provided an interlude, and forewarning to the protectorate skills that’d eventually enable a Mechanical Boar. Gears in motion, and feed-traps set with baited urine was all it’d taken to lure the royal pain-in-her-ass. She’d often roll her eyes at the mere sight of the ordained ruler of the land; unimpressed didn’t even begin to define her fixed expression. Artemis had only wanted to lead the Boar to the slaughter; her services paid with his unapologetic indignant sassiness. Artemis had found him tethered to a post, dragging along his heavy hooves--digging with cupidity, almost as though he were avoiding the firm reaches of the law.

She had caught the Mechanical Boar whimpering, as though he had been castigated and wailing; curled beneath broken post and forgotten. Artemis took hold of his leather collar, and slathered reigns with an invisible connexion that reeked and guided down a braided--tabooed urine-drenched leash. The "man in control" was kompromat to an exceptional schema--crafted to destroy Democracy on multiple fronts. The talon’d leader had wanted to rip out the heart of foreign Nation, to grasp tightly onto freedom and drain it of potential. His corrupted morals and lack of frugality had tethered him to a strange, averagely tall man with three letters inked into the skin of his forearms like a branded glove. The simplistic code of HMX was without explanation, but precious to a version of Artemis--stuck in a blinded paradox. She was a "man of science"...able to decipher the caution of his presence in a "training exercise". Artemis feared no mortal. The summation of an un-detonated device of octogen--being invaluable to someone traveling through time before the twentieth century, in the small town of Ryazan, on September twenty-second. Full stop. Artemis hadn’t wanted to assassinate the beast; unsure and afraid of the blood dripping; forever weighing heavy over weakened hands. Instead, she simply dismantled the plan of a man that found strength in crafting advantageous circumstances--those, meant to cripple a Nation with trauma, delay an election, and impose tyrannical law.

This ruthless beast was referred to as the Cyclops--his myopic views set in stone, a dynamiter of chaos: Hades-bent on ensuring heterosexuals ruled the world. The man had been labelled a beast, for he lacked compassion or sympathy, and pandered toward the inducement of alarmist tactics. Artemis found it ironic for a world leader to care so much about who fucked-and-cucked who, considering the flamboyancy of the balding hawk-eyed circumstances. He deemed vagrancy and criminality for all those longing for love, and failed his peers with the vociferous rhetoric-imbibed with closeted homophobic curiosities. The aging man was consumed by the thoughts and daydreams of men casually ramming men; without his witnessing approval to markate his newly-founded law.

Artemis had placed him in a darkened cave, smirking wickedly at a chalk-drawn square. The presence of Artemis and the stark leader imprisoned in a state of non-threatening peonage, had been traded for a debt promising answers on how to consolidate power. The square held a single word: "school", and a frame of auxiliary holding up the single word: fence. Artemis had set up a simulation open for an audience to view, to platform a balding man--deliberately setting fire to the lives of hundreds of children...simply to attain the chance to approach a fence and murmurer "this belongs to me". The retired spy, undistinguished in his looks, unmemorable in his leadership...now sitting upon a cheaply constructed chair, looking down upon the struggling citizens from his throne. No amount of damage to a community could hault the man from his unabated smiling. He took immense joy out of slaughtering children, and the preparation of tortures to be rendered--if his citizens dared any form of usurpation to his fucked-up rule of law.

He had a growing list of enemies, and a shrinking list of syndicates...the lesser of his talents in stuffing ballots could only pull so much weight. A plethora of Nations had fallen to this beast: slain for defending their dignified rights to expression, whereas Artemis stood upon her lawn and threw up two single triggering fingers, as she exercised Le droit to do so. Many investigative journalists had gone missing in recent times. Artemis held up a glass of fine fermented grapes in their honor...spilling it upon her liberated soils; those rich with freedom. She’d sip the ancient juice, embracing the birth-notes of equality. The Nation tirelessly worked to uphold her chances to appreciate a lovely after-taste, warm with virtue, and she had declared the notes of decency to be worth defending. Her Warrior Ethos and title of Princess, meant that she’d always be the last to capitulate such a cold-hearted individual, if he ever foolishly attempted to lay-siege to her beloved land: defended by an evolving democratic law.

Artemis had stood in a room, eclipsing a doughty Mechanical Boar by way of presence and competence. The Cyclops had wished into the universe a dangerous weapon, the mightiest of beings. He had all but yelled "release the beast!"--only to turn around and find Artemis standing in the middle of a room painted millennial grey. She’d fix a dainty bow holding back half of her hair--the unmanageable mess of flopped over straw, defiantly parted down the middle. She’d often grumble, and stumble in the presence of unhinged personalities. "Yea, whatsup." The beady-eyed leader was dumbfounded, for how could a bubbly petite woman, be all the universe could device for the ultimate war he had planned to rage? Artemis was only a handler, to a unpredictable Mechanical Boar: the willing agent of peace-born to paint the bleak world with colorful interpretations of those that manipulated, abused, or neglected the rule of law.

This Cyclops had been busy, busy: hypnotizing all those of his own land--until they would assent, or bow to his unlawful behavior. The manipulative Cyclops had found striking detail: proof that a Mechanical Boar had impotence...that could only be cured by urine. Such vile preferences made Artemis blush, for no reason outside of her own understanding of such sexual proclivities. The Cyclops had crafted a leash dripping with ripe urine, and a cage that held the scent of a semi-successful predecessor that the Boar had come to loathe. To this ignominy: the Boar was obligated to his beck and call: forever the sow-bitch tethered to a leather leash. Like a lazy-ass Operations Manager, dragging along an immigrant HR representative, too naive to know better. Someone had to be to blame for the laziness of others, someone had throw bodies into the pyres of war. Why not throw hourly workers under a chariot, to better profit in personal bonuses and weigh down the standards? Artemis had noticed the only difference between herself, a shitty manager, and a Cyclops had been their monetary commitment to lethargic strategy. Artemis wasn’t dumb enough to tether herself to a trash leader bending the law, and she sure as Hades, was willing to be the bigger man in a situation where the Mechanical Boar was forever cursed with digging his own grave. Artemis threw down the reigns of an esteemed position, stepping into the unknown--self-aware, that true change only came at the expense of sacrifice. Artemis had left a building filled with legacy, an occupation in which she found great dignity, to step aside and watch the judicial system survey the terrain and investigate criminality found within the confounds of the Benson. There unrest of mistreatment would be the only thing to compound the suffering of the citizens that believed an honorable occupation, meant the protection of professionalism and respect for the laborers curated behind the implication of order, standards and the law.

One day Artemis had walked away from a vitriol work environment, more concerned by the discrepancies in her tax-filings--than committed to making excuses for a manager, famed for salacious exposure on public platforms. Her life was bigger than any hourly work. Artemis had nothing to prove to lame management, and so she had retreated behind tears and finally regained the strength to stand up once more, pulling tight to the iron reigns removed from the club-handed grasp of the Cyclops. The balding beast: held his head high, smirking wickedly in the faces of all his enemies. He was unaware the Artemis didn’t approve of doing things for free, and that included her fateful consultations. The mongrel-of-a-man was forever standing alone in a padded room congratulating murderers and world leaders alike, as their financial holdings had officially made them all...stand above the law.

Artemis had known very little of Cyclopses, and giggled at herself...whenever she stumbled saying this word out loud: a childhood-lisp occasionally slipped and distracted her from tones of seriousness. Her love of dramatic flair, left her resorting accentuating pronunciations: handling issues head-on, in case she had to deal with her speech impediment in front of people someday. She was shameless in the need to mock Western speech: minor seizures had configured a few of her cheek muscles to struggle with tongue posture, and a crocked smile was left as a result. A minor lisp was the least of her problems most days. The twinkle in her eye, and matching personality type left Westerners unnerved, confused even...often recalling encounters with an authentic person to be "an experience". Artemis almost resented the similarities she held with an aging dictator, as he was often spellbound with tyrannical ambitions: staring at a square plastered upon the floor, as though it were a simple Country, and smiling ecstatically at a barren line standing in the distance, as though it promised an Empire. His eyes would squint searing with a hypo-manic eagerness--needing to declare a war for himself: wishing only to be the Tsar that crafted and upheld the law.

She had once giggled in the direction at the napoleon-like Cyclops, as he paraded around on a miniature horse. The foolery was well beyond her understanding of trolling. His naked display was meant to pose a brazen idea that painted a portrait of brute strength, but Artemis pitied his constant ability to remain standing, riding, and sitting in physical isolation. The man hadn’t a single syndicate that thought highly of him, and although he thought it was for the best--the leader was never able to move past the thresh of an old man, dictating the deaths of the young. His troops began to abandon post in droves, whereas Artemis began building a flock of Indigenous Warriors--content with a leader they’d observed in running into the fires of isolation in order to lay a better path for the future. Discomfort was a small price to pay, and judgement was the shilled obstacle that brought her followers clarity. She told men straight-forward things like "A majority of women just want to know a situation beforehand...very few men have found themselves in trouble for explaining the terrain and its upcoming obstacles." The rules of feminism weren’t threatening to strong men, they were just reminders that women (like most mortals), disliked the penetrable damage caused by being blind-sided by the misconduct of such solvable justice.

The Cyclops was forever behind the curve--trapped by his own misgivings where he conflated being alone--with winning a fight of obscurity. Loneliness was an unspoken rule for those in positions of power, and would be the Achilles heel to his plan in releasing a Mechanical Boar--to trample the land, burning the villages down as a natural process in rebuilding a Nation from the ground up. His emboldened demeanor would eventually be unveiled and torn to shreds, presenting itself as aggrieved proof of miscalculations. The Cyclops was cursed with being the wrong leader, for the wrong crowd. A petite moron upon a hooved beast, trotting in circles as he chased his own tail. Artemis stood center stage to the laps of an exhausted pet, weary and raged. She stood in upheavals of dusted trail, laughing unapologetic ally that the lonely spy had the audacity to doubt the local and foreign citizens ability to unite in their need to protect the boundaries of law.

There had only been historical evidence found: of one other monstrous tyrant in current history...a Cyclops that had famously ruled during the Second World War and wed a family member. The women of the land laughed at the high standards of vanity the Cyclops had, as he often ordered his subjects to paint his portrait in gold--prepping his propaganda material for the day he brought on the full-might of the firey-Nation. Artemis would shrug her shoulders, watching as her soldiers lined themselves at her door one by one--each noticing the presence of a tied chord to an unruly grandpa. Whenever they questioned his need to be affiliated with Traditional rule, Artemis would become indifferent; understanding that the man had seen her from behind and probably made the honest mistake in following a blonde-haired lady through bad vision, and the assumption that she had been a glittering lady, famed for her fantastic ta-tas and a storm-driven libido...or possibly the daughter he casually lusted after. Both those women would tempt and dismantle the illusions of crowds, unwilling to defend a person that spat upon the fine-threaded words of Justice.

Artemis was unfazed by cultivated chaos, unrelenting in her need to defend the world from losers with big personalities and lack-luster work ethic. True chaos was built at the hand of time--the unsettling of pent-up mistreatment could carve out an entire world. It had been the reason in which many-a-men overlooked or occasionally feared Artemis, standing amidst the blood-shed; arms folded over an ever-changing cover of a book. Her version of defense tactics usually meant asking for assistance through legal council, with the intent to build public boundaries for employers eager to discard workers. Artemis pitied the fool--that dared undermined her capabilities in understanding and preserving the rule of law.

Artemis was given the expectation of being the bigger man; set-up for failure and blamed for the misgivings of pathetic leadership. Unlike the wee man, sitting upon his small horse without a shirt, holding gallant dance--his oddities on full-display. Artemis was unable to be captivated by a threatening presence, supposedly oozing in masculinity. She had placed him in a situation where his blatant aging and stark nakedness meant more than a cohesive mission statement. There would be no Nation to topple, that Artemis could see--no need to tear down a dictator before he’d come to power. She could easily derail his plot with a single name--Ms. Clark. The unification of opinion backed by tangible talent was something that the aging man was unprepared for, as his expectations for women was confined to a single room--the bedroom, and Artemis had taken advantage of his narrow scope. The future Artemis wanted to protect was bright, inspired, and filled with future educators ready for the elderly to let go of time--if only to stride hand-in-hand and demand better circumstances for all citizens. Unlike Ms. Clark, the world didn’t dare chant "underrated" in Artemis’s face--the citizens had however--found other ways to tear down her need to remain the exception to the rules of orphan-hood. Athletic legacy had finally fell on its own sword; providing monetary value to the mirroring talent--opening the floodgates to fashionable intrigue and a crafted future filled with sponsor-laced justice.

Artemis was a Muse of Discord, toe-to-toe’ing Titan leaders behind a carved board, orange shield and a silk robe. She had set the stage to dismantle a third world war: drenching herself with a liquid poured daily from a ceramic fish. To bathe in ones sins--meant the difference of wine and water; the disassociation of ones actions had gifted Artemis an Odyssey to quench an unquenchable thirst. Artemis provided an intricate stage, handing the balding man a limp fish and the option to provide for his Nation. The man flicked agile wrists, de-gutting the scaled offering--holding strict eye-contact with an eagle eye toward prompted set-ups. He threw a stout leg over saddled stances, and gathered river-collected water in the gaping corpse--pouring out its soupy contents into his own mouth, a waterfall of useless incentives meant to incite gag reflexes and restore global justice.

The man was locked-in, unprepared for the empathetic winds of change that had swept the golden nets of knowledge and garden of lies. Her generation offered slight awkwardness to situations gifted upon moments of unannounced entry. The strange sight and smell of the man dousing himself in unfiltered waters was met with a meme-worthy grin, a clenched gag and probably an apology for the reaction and interruption. The man continued on with his showers; gulping away at the contents while Artemis begged him for explanation between gasps and deep-heaving gags. The trepidation between generations was evident, where one longed for an outmoded loyalty, and the other sat patiently--waiting for the turn of mortal clocks to restore justice.

The entry of a rusted beast was the only accessory that interested the intestine-drenched hunter. Artemis stepped aside-giggling at the fact the Mechanical Boar often fell asleep at the early brims of personal testimony from others--he was difficult to take anywhere. Artemis gave the Mechanical Boar away--tucked beneath the wings of a pigeon-eyed leader. She’s fall into haphazard luck; coining a timeless phrase--about having to see a guy about a pig. Both the Cyclops and the Boar...could destroy every corner of reality. Artemis wondered if the pair had been bullied in primary school; her seemingly miserable life had been set into motion; long before her birth--the scope of inherited bullshit could be implied by the duo’s gathered privilege and packaged bullshit. Corruption scorched the soils beneath them--their fabrications eroded the land wherever they walked. Artemis was the opposite of the "bro team", openly fearing the reign of the man leading his leashed bitch; forever obligated to pay her taxes--lay low behind overthought poems surrounded in her passion for the checks and balances provided by the law.

Artemis watched in amusement, as the Cyclops woke one day, abruptly digging himself a hole--shoveling through rubbish. She captured a gold portrait of the man digging a hole--wearing nothing but his briefs. The shared portrait and held a simple added caption: asking where the bodies may be hidden. The Cyclops had been sleepwalking, and attempted to un-bury the missing two-spirited people that had gone missing--by decree of the homophobic beast. The missing investigative journalist...had discovered the Genocide of the citizens. They had seemingly been paid to leak the secrets of the Cyclops, trading the exposure of truth with their lives; forfeiting life to preserve journalistic justice.

Artemis had uncovered the Cyclops: digging upon this mass grave, and accidentally captured his reflection mid cover-up. She quickly fumbled to attain her heart-encrusted compact mirror from a side-slinging purse, and managed to hold it steady--barely long enough to divert his blinding reflections, the passing light cascaded off his large...buffed and balding head. Artemis stood unbothered, confidently sitting in a centered stance, holding a hear-shaped mirror with both hands and harnessing the light of the moon. The force of the light began to slowly take down the monster; he was unable to see the terrain moving around him--an elder, anchored in a narrative of political stature that no longer existed. She didn’t want to slaughter or disable him--so she often returned to his battle field to take a nap. Rants about total domination reminded Artemis that she were simply too tired; underpaid, and too inexperienced in life--to pander to basic-bitch monsters. Artemis needed a well-deserved nap, as it was quite taxing to be the impoverished artist; left with only the daydream of publishing works of tasteless art, and embarking on the task of defending the law.

The Boar and the Cyclops stood without dignity: avoiding direct paths and branched ways to fight fair. Artemis stood tall…armed with her choice-weapon in hand: a cute pink rhinestone encrusted heart-shaped compact mirror and the naked truth. Holding hips-locked...trusting her might as she plowed forward through colors swirling violently around her--pressing further into her ambitious steadfast; the future was diverse-bound by fine-print and the culture shift of access to knowledge. The citizens began waking up with each press in political boundary, unwilling to let a foreign adversary dictate their law.

Artemis had successfully utilized the blinding rays of his own forehead and redirected the reflection to disable his sight. Crippling the beast by firing the refracting flare of colors directly into his narrow-set eyes. The Cyclops had once held them hostage, and surrounded them by walls of brimming waste: threatening to expand his Empire, even if it meant poisoning every single one of the citizens. Now they were united by their struggles and heritage, and committed to assist in unveiling the dark past of the Cyclops that had been providing horrific violence for decades. He made his own soldiers ill, falling on their weapons to detract from serving in a useless conflict. There was no way to draft for will-to-power and the way it impacted those being thrown on the pyres of war. The elderly no longer rode into battle with their armored soldiers, and took joy in the bets of stock ranges that fluctuated with their trades in supplied justice.

The beastly single-viewed man, would always jump to tactics of escalation- no avid gambler could handle a contrived simulation of being placed into a mortal box. Instead of the small-fry sport--she offered assistance in predicting a future; one lined with ditches of corpses of children. Artemis wept openly at the sight of such degrading lack of respect for life; his depiction of collective wasn’t like others. He was isolated by nature in sadism. She was forever alone in caring. The disconnect in perceived threats was limited to the education given to the tax-payers. Their two generations were forever ripped apart--the discomfort of Indigenous Warrior Genocide stood as a chip on her shoulder; a pain for Artemis to burden for all of time. She was forever grateful for a world of opportunity and equal-enough justice.

Artemis called upon the citizens to hear her desperate plea in leading a fascist blood-thirsty man to his fate and sentence in a cage made of static. They had let their guard down, and their voting systems threatened by a stranger--betting on a aimless sheep and not the educated shepherd to lead him home victoriously. She was the last-line of defense, a secretary of histories long-felt battles and a giddy fan-girl of the Democratic system of law.

Next Chapter: *[ VI ] Artemis and the Hydra*