Having conquered the Hydra with minimum effort, Artemis felt empowered by battle educed adrenaline; free-flowing through her blood...like a euphoric drug. The high...lasting for many moons after the battle. She didn’t immediately wash off the blood of the monster, and instead: admired her new war paint smeared and dried across her face. Her stiffened hair was another matter in itself: it lay matted and less-than malleable.

Artemis felt pride in the recent slaughter, having grown exhausted watching the Hydra and his followers: toast to the Genocide she called life. Such “Traditions” of Thanksgiving festivities: originated with ornaments of fall colors and warm bevy...holding feast around the decapitated heads of her ancestors...used as cheap decorations. The holding head of the table...as it’s still called today. The secondary version of history was unwelcome in homes filled with joyous celebration, because the truth wasn’t palpable to most citizens. Its aftertaste was bitter, and its contents stale, opposing a narrative that was assumed to be malleable.

Their barbaric celebratory nourishment--were standard loot and booty; stolen goods provided unwillingly by the local Tribes...thoughtfully prepared, and cultivated for the rough winters ahead. The settlers participated in child rape: topping-off their drunk evenings of celebrations with their coveted traditions of pillaging as they saw fit. The sinful nature was something forgiven by the pages of a book of lore; edited and forgotten in bits and pieces. The colonizers brought a theory of evil that was without Just punishment, because they wanted the the world to wrap itself around if map of moral indecency. Their choice in outrage was up for sale at all times, its prices were fit custom to the crimes--malleable.

Artemis cursed her own manuscript--dispelling darkness from within her heart by methods of humility and truthful storytelling. Her own readers were now-and-forever cursed…with misfortune and guilt. The upcoming fall and holiday seasons were simply battles of debauchery; wealthy with political discord and confused sadness. A never ending attack on a family unit; a battery drained by opinions wrong, unethical, or blindsiding to all those that believed maturity meant aging; or that a single vote was more than enough--in a sense of contributing to society. Democracy was the only thing unsure, somehow appreciative to the many nuances of a community; flourishing with a precious newborn political system that was still protected to remain amendable--its laws malleable.

The Mechanical Boar would arouse his passionate followers and encourage the “haters and losers” to campaign on his ignorance and corruption: needing his crew of thugs to foot the bill. Artemis stood aside; laughing at the view of strangers screaming along the route of a veering parade--an unsanctioned river of predictable spectacle and sensationalism--followed the indirect path of all those that donned a red cap and its redundant slogan. You could see the army of idiots from kilometers away, is all I’m tryin to say. The circuitous worries mounted and readied a cannon without a directive--Artemis grew ashamed of all the things she had been told to be thankful for. Her everyday, casual loathing of such citizens--was an anathema to the spirit of the holiday. She watched in little interest...as gladiators knelt in solidarity to the brutality of the domestic thugs that terrorized the citizens. Artemis observed the plump Boar: condemning the masses, gesturing with a lazy hoof and a smirk--ordering the Gladiators to entertain him on the weekdays. Squealing in the ear was his right hand man--a pale stranger, clapping softly with his small hooves...waving them on with the pompousness orders. The man was busy missing the touch of mother, too preoccupied with the sins of being trapped in a room with another female--to care for the Mechanical Boar; lovingly named little boots, or wee boots to many. Artemis heard the declaration and plea of the citizens...soberly claiming bipartisanship as a prisoner of war: arming a wounded existence with iron-clad words and worries that allowed her to stand impartial, and malleable.

Artemis was indifferent to their half-hearted pleas, annoyed by the precocious nature of these blasé citizens. Their grandparents were capable of being the worst kind of people; forever reborn with the same faces to prove the purging smile that eventually painted itself. Her Indigenous Warriors weren’t exactly affiliated with passivity or polite etiquette, and she found it off-putting: how her cousins up North had assimilated to such an extent--that they began defending their captors. She caught herself staring a seemingly simple portrait in a hallway, and began weeping at the unwritten context. A dreary watercolor splashed over a tattered canvas, displaying only a building--and two figures standing downstage to the scene. Richard and Brian were the two pawns of a simulation; of the horrors buried deep in the portrait and production called Kuper Island. Their actions undefended; unforgivable, nonredeemable--a chapter in history where kidnapped children suffered the ultimate sentence, for being born on Northern lands claiming to protect independence.

She found their tribalism to be quirky: the wealthy-ish land was known only for maple leafs, and for residing within a big village...a village, that nobody could afford. Traveling along the Salish Sea: these Northerners had become proceeding to be more relevant to her life, as her best friend...Yoyo hailed from the frostbitten land. Artemis and Yoyo had been separated their whole lives by an invisible line. It was now a topic of interest, as Artemis was expecting Yoyo to bring forth a small Warrior baby: come spring--their family had finally begun expanding in a joyous direction. Artemis took up her weapons of silver and gold once more, and traveled up North: ready to leave her homeland--needing to find out what had occurred on an abandoned island. Artemis traveled solo, as Yoyo was with child...and she hadn’t wished to further distress or cause alarm to the quiet, but very hormonal woman. Artemis didn’t mind...stopping by Yoyo’s mothers village, as her mum was famous: for a delectable dish she often crafted by hand. Love filled dumplings...known only as pierogies. Artemis basked in the warm memories of Yoyo and the kindness of her mum, continuing on her way North... knowing the dish would taste even better upon her trek home. She was not afraid of the citizens and their forced smiles, but reminded herself: to never let her guard down and give the impression of being a tourists that were simply misplaced, understanding and or, malleable.

Artemis was able to provide a sample of her dedication to assimilation: she often stood in a beautiful mansion--holding guard with a smile and warm welcome. Her building was a historic artifact, just as she was--to a careless timeline with cheap taste. The red circassian coddled visitors--weary from their travels. Artemis was the beautiful art, alone in the direct sight of a lobby--clamoring with festive glasses and Carl managing his work through mumbles and grumbles. Artemis found a laughter that belonged in the beginning chapters of her book-meticulously aimed and reserved for good company. Despite the fact that Artemis prided herself on wearing many hats and trades; she felt a sense of deep disappointment in her failures. She began to weep, the corrosion of her enthusiasm to serve the public had been challenged-leaving her work to suffer until there was only the option to free fall into a field of unknown...defeated and barely lucid to what little was left of her independence.

She reflected on how amazing it felt--to be in a massive room all abuzz, surrounded by festivities and hardworking citizens doing their best to keep a sinking boat afloat. Two-days-a-week, their leaders would abandon ship-needing to recuperate from their salary position and job security. The woeful life. Artemis found herself surrounded by a handful of professionals, and a tall pale man in ill-fitting robes. The sloppily lined pin-stripes and spit flying from his mouth; were enough of a nightmare for any service industry worker to recall. He had asked for Artemis’s help, and recoiled at the fact she had pawned him off on a director of banquets...when he had questions about his lavish party. She prepared to leave--thrilled to detach the invisible chain holding her to a stone-topped desk. "I don’t know how they do things in your culture". Artemis crashed to reality in a split-second, asking the tacky yelling man--"what do you mean by: in his culture?". The jurisdiction of a Princess title; meant the burden of pervasive defensiveness extended to any citizen in need of a defender to stand up for another’s independence.

The man stumbled his words--telling Artemis to stay put...and then demanding she get out of his face. Her office was stationary, unmovable, as were her handful of duties on the docket. It was fairly easy to paint the man as a colonizer, defined by pure entitlement, extensive enabling, and to place him in a building where he believed his employers wealth and budget would connote as his own wealth--if only for the night. Artemis said less--until the man was inconsolable by her mere existence. The lack of utterance on her end; disrupted his shallowness in belief of owning everyone in the service of a buildings operations, and he had to be ushered into a ballroom of crystals. Artemis had said what needed to be said: reminding him that she and the other workers were unionized; protected from the wrath of corporate mistreatment through a succinctly defined--outline of duties and responsibilities that allowed the workers to be united in their diligence, all while accessorizing the manner; in which each worker approached their professional independence.

After all was said and done: Artemis held her head high--she could get another hourly occupation, but no amount of time could undo the hateful rhetoric of a loser attempting to diminish the title of a director. Mr. Davis had thanked her in the sad silence while she walked through the rain: each step held a tip-toe of caution, because she didn’t trust the vindictive "diversity" of those in middle and upper management--to understand such racist encounters; they didn’t like being bothered by things they didn’t care to understand--especially if it disrupted their weekend. Such a lesson--was a refreshing memory that there were so many ways to aide those that came to her land to seek endless opportunity and profitable independence.

If the reader were to ask who Artemis was--amongst the landscape of polis drowning in self-pity: she could render herself as content, waiting for people to stop by and admire a nearly-abandoned building. When those in charge bailed: Artemis strapped up soft-toed heels and a stride that announced her need for vengeance. The vestiges of a glamorous history echoed from within the walls. Artemis took long, drawn in breath; sighing and preparing for any social-anxiety nightmare that included a line of blinking lights--the range of success was stifled by the choices of an aging leader; throwing mid-management on the pyre and reigning fear upon his workers with instability and half-hearted choices. Artemis was concerned by how the workers treated the man as holy--his words were considered inarguable, his swaying will and opinion--to be law, and his need to treat peoples livelihood as a prop or production left hard working citizens to blunder between balancing corporate greed and the extenuating circumstances of their taxed independence.

Artemis wasn’t the least bit surprised by the amount of eradication in employment--to those that refused to play his game of "haunted mansion". Artemis stood behind a desk, and stared at a disparate crack in the marble flooring; focused on whether it was real, or if the deepening ridges were in her imagination. Artemis returned to her numbers and logic--falling over a budget that expressed dire situation of a building crumbling beneath the title of foreclosure. The public release of their financial status; made the world less heavy--the weight of others mistakes and missteps were measured in budgets, turnover, and inked in stone. All of those things had occurred; long before she had stepped foot onto a sinking ship. None of the information had been manipulated or foreshadowed as a surprise--because failure was not being accounted for as an option to a handful of well-paid individuals. Their version of success was reserved for those standing above the rest, a caste of a suited gang--grumbling about their lack-of-cultivation in profits, and overlooking the regular issues of slow tourism and the engendered implications that failure was looming in the air. One not-so-extraordinary day: Artemis walked in with boots of combat, and left with a graceful click of a gliding, decisive heel--refusing to bend-over and take it: because she was unable to trust or respect the leadership offered. Life was too precious for her to intimidated, threatened and stressed by trash leaders that were openly confused by corporate goals conflicting with the jurisprudence of her independence.

A loser had stolen and captured her voice for eternity without her consent, and Artemis had raised arms and began banging on a shield with a snarl. The damage of trust was incalculable, illegal, and something she was unprepared to forgive. Artemis demanded to know who had the audacity to steal her voice in the confines of a private room, and why they felt the need to break the laws of consent on behalf of company. There was no answer of reason by a line of suits, and Artemis packed her belongings at the edges of midnight...unable to conform, or excuse such illegal activity. Artemis straightened the Blue Crest of Hope she held over her heart: saddened by the fact she’d have to abandon the beautiful ship. She’d walk a plank, clutching a single paper--reporting the illegal activity to a Bureau of Labor Industries and needing to protect a close friend from the never-ending reign of terror. Artemis would gladly step along a plank with a head held high, to leap into the great unknown--if only to defend a single citizen; that deserved a defender of their work ethic and independence.

In the moment of epiphany: Artemis had looked around and thought a simpleminded realization--nobody was in charge of their sinking ship. They were without a proper leader, and the workers suffered endlessly for the myriad of issues that fell outside of their duties. A chandelier began to drip, a lone pipe expressed the dire situation. Artemis had seen it shivering, heard it longing to be maintained with care...she offered her services to the company, and her slimy boss has said "nah", and hired her brother instead. In the span of a conversation; Artemis had had enough, no longer wanting to be affiliated with a boss hiding from the public, and yelling "let’s kick it" from a sudsy bathtub. The "stressed out" boss; could care-less about a beautiful monument of a building, and treated the job Artemis prized as beneath her. Artemis had nothing to offer a company steeped in nepotism, led by laziness, and holding a charnel stench of corruption and hopelessness. The brand of their work was shifted: now illustrated by a naked woman in a tub...dropping the derogatory term "nigga, nigga, nigga". Artemis was no longer able to look at her designated leader the same; she finished collecting her memories and office supplies in silence...unable to conform to the rebranding of the Benson. It was best for her to read the growing cracks in the marble, and to seek a more professional environment that better amplified her hard-work, passion for a soggy metropolis a bit more seriously. Life was better off, without a less-than-glamorous leader; rearranging her schedule last minute with the malicious intent to inflict harm on Artemis’s financial independence.

To be Tribal Princess--meant to eat others sorrow at will. Her happiness was always deemed as less of a priority, when it came between a life of poise and comforting. The world was filled with so much turmoil, that it left Artemis holding in the emotions of ten people at a time. Some nights she’d wander to the coliseum of roses, silent tears falling in moments of content joyousness--Artemis felt her heart aching, recalling the fact that her friend Buckles had once existed in such building. He had been real, forever locked away in the buildings and taunting Artemis in dreams. The quest of mortality was one where the world longed for moments that required a machine in which to travel through time. Her life had turned into an utter nightmare overnight--the tale of homicide gave birth to a cursed book, as a last straw to cling onto--the splintering of reality had challenged Artemis’s will in might, will to live, and sent her on a path to reclaim her cultural independence.

The sense of person and place led her to wander North, missing Yoyo and needing reassurance in her decision to desert a haunted mansion and its cursed marbleized fault line. Artemis set out with a list of questions, needing specification of a story about Richard; a child forever dangling in despair in front of his peers. Journalistic integrity meant Artemis was subject to witness the Ames effect second-hand; holding the hands of elders recounting their childhood--being ordered to each take a moment to stare at a fallen First Nations Warrior, as he hung above wooden floors meant for victory. Sacrilege in a such temples had brought Artemis to their door with questions. The elders lined up, all needing to bring forward their truths and to repent for loss of life. The background of an isolated environment, surrounded by pedophiles and enablers--meant there could be no just reconciliation for travesties committed by a government ready to commit cultural Genocide; if it meant a "bright future" bragging about their assimilated independence.

She listened attentively to the locals, and sought answers for their many problems: avoiding from spilling gruesome details to the citizens of her previous week of mischief. Never providing any tea: that she had slain the Hydra by hand. The citizens of the North were equally enablers to the ill-intended Hydra....at the end of the day: their alliance was to a blood-thirsty beast. They now sought her help in finding their daughters, as their land had became a silk road for exporting humans. Artemis was barely able to seek answers as to what had happened to Richard, let alone manage the known details of the more-recently murdered or missing women and children lost along the Highway of Tears. The blackness in her mind, began to fester and the details of child violence began to swallow her childish smiles with each story. She had no answers for a community dedicated upon stand aside a lie, no amount of retaliation would undo the generations of damage that had survived a timeline built around rouge religious independence.

The weight of their trials had morphed her beaming grin: with one of fragility and uncanny confusion, with a glazed look that suggested...she stood at the opposite side of the valley. A dancing smile and brow proved she was hysterical in a calmed rage: suffering in the deafening silence, as she waited for the women and families to come forth and tell their stories. The horrors of women and children: stolen in plain sight, the hunted sprinting for freedom, and falling victim to the title bounty. Artemis cried at their side: the stories made her sick in the stomach, and the contents of her last meal churning and yearning to be freed. Child abuse was found in each layer of their shared experience. She was left enraged by the injustice: inquisitive as to what type of leader--would allow such a thing to happen to its prized citizens. Artemis began to yell profanities at the North and gain access to the information she needed to locate the one they called....the Prime Minister. Artemis had numerous issues gaining access to this information, since the local Northern Indigenous Warriors--were cast under veils of perpetual woe: mourning their stolen women and children, and fighting the immense shame they felt for having been rendered unarmed--their security systems vulnerable and often malleable.

Artemis didn’t have time for this shit. She left in the dead of night wandered across the snow covered land, and found herself in front of a massive house. It was out of place, as it was managed to aesthetically clash with the warm log cabins surrounding the mansion. She banged on his oversized doors: her wee fist clamoring as small dense insecure thuds--each bang of the fist held less rhythm than the last. Her petite stature: did little-damage, to the massive wooden oak plains. Artemis conceded from her tantrum, and fiddled with the carved brass horse that protruded from the polished wood. She politely dropped the knocker, and felt alarmed when the ground beneath her feet began to shake. The violence of its polite passivity: now splintering the wood directly surrounding the brass horse. Unlike the marble floors of her haunted mansion, this building stood on a foundation of shaking reasoning and the fears of self-efficacy. Defending the right to contort history and its horrific stories to be observed in a manner of prioritization, the pleasant success stories to the front--and the "less admirable" tales to background; forgotten preferably. The records were either lost or reported to a Queen far away; to a crowned family holding reigns over anyone--too afraid to claim diplomatic independence.

Artemis was half-surprised to see the owner had answered the door himself, and felt her eyes widen and a jaw physically dropping in surprise, as she looked down and observed...that the handsome man in charge, was also a Centaur. Artemis stood taken aback momentarily: judging his quaffed hair and seemingly sincere smile, but remained focused to the task on-hand. He appeared to be expecting her in some fashion, as he held to the Traditional World customs: meeting the Princess with no kingdom to be polite, and remembering to bow in honor of an outdated customary. Artemis found something were still odd by his appearance: watching him rise slowly from all fours. He was half man--half horse, and he seemed fairly-cocky with the animalistic traits he bore. It became difficult to resist from being rude or looking overtly perverse, as she her kept glancing towards his famed backside and introduced herself. Homie was caked-up, and youthful AF-an anathema to a majority of other world leaders. To the success of her observations: she gained a better gist, as to why she didn’t quite mesh with his strange back-to-the-wall personality. He seemed very comfortable with arrangement of being a straw-man, for a monarchy that could care less about his meticulously-kept yard--let alone, his personal independence.

It turns out: the details of the legend of the Centaurs: of descriptors being an individual born half-horse...half-man, had been a skewed description or an ancient curse named after Mandela. Artemis noticed that her entry into the monstrosity of a building tuned a travel-tune-spilling over romantic chemicals and expressing a dedication for the Sharpest Lives; switched over to a flattened pop-filled chorus "But you’re never break my could, This is a part of me--that you’re never gonna take away from me. Artemis had brought an orange sphere on her travels--knowing a just competition of athletic talent, was something the baby-faced would feel guilt in passing up a chance to flash a sportsman smile to onlookers. The guy seemed at ease; being a figurehead to a kingdom overseas--content with being an accessory to a crown, without a care in the winds and gleeful in forfeiting autonomy and national pride earned through independence.

The man bore no bottom half of a horse, but a vast and wide torso--that of a large moose. The man had transformed himself into a beast by accident; his words emptier than his grandest of grins, and his personality unable to be solidified. He was strange, and insincere to those that studied the behavior of mortals. To this Artemis allowed herself to see the humor and giggled at the irony--the world chose men like the Justin and Bret, as though the world was ending tomorrow; trysting with the boundaries of luck and privilege. Artemis welcomed herself in, knowing well that the ego driven, beast-of-a-politician was too polite and curious to know what had brought the petite stranger to his door on such a stormy night. She recalled her studies; playing off of the fact that Mooses notoriously held no respectable voice, and were indecisive, unable to mark their permanent territory. The victimized role of being in charge of place too bizarre to be real, king of a land-owned by an antiquated system that oppressed their potential at commerce-driven independence.

Artemis made faces meant for a fumbling toddler, expressing a state of listening and understanding--listening to the ramblings of a leader with clumsy demeanor and docile attitude. She collected herself emotionally, as she cracked her neck from side-to-side once more: the pretentious beast looked noticeably uncomfortable in his own home, victimization buried beneath dancing eyes became the focal point of a play in motion: long before Artemis had sprite-fully hung a tapestry--burning its frays and tatters, dedicating copious time to the adage of colorful details--to better bring a sense of inevitable victory for those home, stuck with dreary expectations for their shared future. The facts around the inherited issues and withstanding opinions towards "diversity" was a stress both the First Nations, and Indigenous Protectors of the Trees could find commonality. The diversion of blame somehow fell on anyone but those in charge, causation for chaos seemed to be in the blood of all the split politicians-jawing in moments of importance. No amount of unification could reason with the curly-haired husband--he was exempt from bringing change to a land already suffering from a lack-of caring, his wobbling knees kept the hairy man from a life of blind servitude. Such figureheads and leaders were seen to Artemis as vehemently: expendable and their true intent--malleable.

She took strides dripping with rain, holding a leather sphere with broad shoulders in his oversized home. Artemis had a way of witchcraft: drawing a curtain and casting a new character within the span of a wardrobe. While she preferred robes of the Olympians--there was occasionally a time and place for her to conform wardrobe choices. In the fleeting moments where grief and guilt didn’t bring hailing showers of emotions--there were occasional increments in time, where Artemis could step lightly; holding horse-stride and a laughter meant to change the world. The female ambition; bottled in a dress and beaming with a glow of deserved independence.

Artemis provided the basic curse of walking and talking, as though briefing before the big show. He forgot his worry in her barging into his tax-funded lair, and she had only dressed for the occasion of meeting a boardroom of stuffy elders. She wasn’t impressed with his brand of charisma, and openly cast disdain--at the Centaurs inability to condemn the ritual of epidemically stealing the Indigenous Warriors and selling them into a trade route filled with violence, sexual depravity, and homicide. He had knowledge of wrongdoing, and seemed bored as he continued to spew generic statistics--mumbling minor details in council to a barren hallway. Artemis found his waxy pale skin to be unattractive--unsure of how the manchurian doll-of-a-man came to power. The ambiguity in followed-up efforts alone, left Artemis unimpressed and her standards set to better assist a land worthy of cultural independence.

Artemis began to yell at the Centaur, clapping near his face and demanding for him to wake up. She picked away at the momentary trail, sitting on the surface of watered down responses. The slicked oil of his vitriol and suppressed passivity--aggressively bubbled to the surface at last. A good thirty-three thousand years after a sphinx had shielded them away in a landfill planet; two mortals holding carefully planted wreathing crowns upon their heads--blinded by ego and the need to redefine independence.

Artemis had no patience for the graceless beast, and sought forth: somewhat-impulsively on a path of destruction. There had come a moment of clarity, when she had decided to set others up for failure--with due diligence, of course. The man remained trapped in a trance of static foreshadowing; gleeful at the image of himself waving upon endless stages. Artemis felt a deep sense of sadness by his smile; unable to pinpoint a bend in a river of time. Urgency in a clock rang in mid-range of their shared simulation; the illusion of buying time had left the world cursed--forced to surrender to the laws of mortality and mass consumerism. Preciousness in life as an improbable force was something that Artemis often reflected on; their disastrous timeline was filled with monsters and beasts, and all those left to be deemed as collateral damage. Their shared reality was a prison with fake lines and taxes; two conflicting forces that kept citizens inept to true progress, social welfare, and the bare minimum of respect from their chosen leaders. It was a pinnacle of truth to turn a tune portraying mounds and mountains and transforming data into a song of mesa’d beats; bringing forth generations, upon generations of digital independence.

Artemis got tired of waiting on the prissy Centaur and began dribbling in place, ready to demolish the prized belongings that filled the pretentious house of ivy if it meant her skills were fresh and her memories in stiffened muscles restored. The stranglehold of innovative talents had gifted Artemis with the golden award burrowed within her competitive spirit--as the first person in her known family to be given scholarly rewards for athletic abilities and academic achievements. She carried herself as a winner, holding a head steadily in massive crowds--not able to be disparaged by the strange sensation of living on a public stage, a Truman in simulation platforming local governance and a shitty game--about a woman writing an awful book about an unforgiving environment that may-or-may-not be scripted, and malleable.

He threw himself into a heap on the stone floors-weary from the elapse of time: his front knobby knees collapsing, as she continued to tear up the property with a shameless toy, and yelling at the beast to wake up. "People don’t just disappear, sir". The man was forever trapped in a memory of a room filled with praise and gratitude. Artemis had set out to ask permission to tear down a building sitting abandoned on an island--only to find out the task had already been done. Their leader had skipped the step of remembering, and jumped straight to reconciliation and reparations--claiming the duty too big for a man with campaigning trails calling his name. He alone, was the only man fit for the job of preserving their cold emotions and frigid contemptible disinterest for the well-being of "the diverse population"--those wishing only for a chance at sovereign independence.

Artemis began to shuffle around the different lifetimes of a man hiding behind a horned mask. She decided to take a round-about approach; placing dark blobs of paint in his hand and adding a dash of iridescent shimmer. The prized mica worked as an eyeshadow in a pinch, and now became a key piece of an ancient mechanism oiled by time and missteps. Instead of pestering at the man...she reprogrammed a simulation to draw out a needle from a haystack of personalities; collected by a man that remained forever destined for a palace to call his own. He seemed dismayed by the reoccuring topic of children disappearing, and kept falling back on the excuses of his ancestors. never giving reason, or wondering alongside the survivors and their families. They had foolishly believed in their mounted protectors, and their tens-of-thousands of children...now seemingly gone without a trace--roaming the land as unsettled spirits, while their small corpses lay in unmarked graves. The children, as young as three were left to be the unaccounted, the forgotten on many timelines. Artemis set out to carve their terror-filled legacy in stone; dense in its weight and unable to rewritten by those needing to amplify their political agendas by re-traumatizing others. Such harmful tact was used by those with compromised loyalty, unstable morals that refracted the direction of prideful independence.

The invisible lines of jurisdiction--protected the core industry of human-trafficking, and left the citizens paralyzed. Artemis knew that the kind-enough leader named Justin would hide behind a mess given in a package treaties. She turned to the man and congratulated him on the two successes known to most nerds, the legacy of Norther talent--finally recruited to represent an extinct beast, and the implementation of a purple shield known as BNR. She followed it up with a single question--asking the man the details surrounding his name in a black book had been fabricated. The man began to smear the blackened substance all over his face with delighted rigor, depicting the events in real time, and tipping off a simulation searching the lands for an untrustworthy leader that openly oppressed and mocked those he served. Justin’s choice to paint himself shameless ever present, and his ethics in question-unexplainable and overall impact; greyed and easily considered malleable.

The man fell from his spell: giddy to take compliments from those in the recent past--only to awake to Artemis staring at him as though a punch were to soon be delivered. He began to sputter accolades for a collective effort that brought communications to countless people, and Artemis interrupted his bullshit speech to remind him of the harsh reality of shortened and focused chunk of time; where schools of abused children existed simultaneously to the achievements that brought prosperity to the land and airwaves. The perfect mixture of successes and failures left them trapped in a world of conflicted understandings as to what was to be defined as culture-focused independence.

The youthful leader began to recoil in surprise--slicked oil sloshing over the brims of side pockets; the odorous smell of decay protruded steadily in waves--deep from within the linings of his pockets...the profits from selling to arms dealers overseas needed to be worn upon his face like rising and falling holdings of markets aimed to push out the less wealthy. The tight trousers he wore became stiffened and stained--the tailored pockets began to seep over with crude oil...stained with blood. Artemis began to panic, knowing the archaic substance attracted Sirens and beastly personalities. Glutton often kept the world behind in its potential; stagnant in efforts or circling a basin-less pot of Gold. Artemis and the Centaur were tied down to a timeline, if only to outline a sparingly appreciated method of lyrics and flows. Her finalized opinion on him as politician was impartial, undeveloped unit of score. Anything to persuade another to measure things in anything other than an imperial; its units to measure by--forever malleable.

Artemis told of an Ancient evil spirit; living inside of the Serpent Chief of the East. He liked to stand over others at any expense, manipulating emotions and attempting to distort reality. The male succubus garnered evil to blaze a trail of mayhem--nothing could stop him from playing with his prey, and basking in the chance to misdirect the world. Artemis was cursed to exist along side his reincarnated spirit--bring an early death to his father. In this timeline; the feathering weight of regret in losing his daughters never fell into reality. Joran could lie for eternity, "his potential"--weighed to a Centaur with a droopy ribbon. Artemis had been the peacemaker, the bringer of death--leading the way in an odyssey of numbers and languages. The great law of peace, brought mortality to reign a shift in personality--rendering a enabled criminal to his knees, caught with extorting the Holloways and taken sadistic joy in killing Stephany with his bare hands and pandering to any audience willing to pay to listen. His father wasn’t here to pick up the ruins of yet, another episode. Artemis had found a lost father leaning over blood-caked hands, fighting tears as he worried he had supplied a murderous stranger with reward for information. Artemis began weeping--asking the man to refrain from such self-harm in placating blame in the wrong direction. Menace spirits like Juran were a hopeless cause--too evil for society; and the international verdicts proved that his choices hadn’t equated for a helpless battle. Some losers were bound to make history books as textbook paid-for-play politics, sprinkled in the pages with an ashen face and a crowd of willing listeners...others were bound to rot in a fucking hole, surrendered to mere long winded paragraph--unable to fucking lie his way out of life imprisoned; unfit for society and unworthy of the freedoms provided by culminating the fronts of a sea dividing--blinded bipartisan independence.

Her aged-laughter had been gained after the slaughter of the Hydra: bellows of confusion fell easily having also edged that beast into a corner. Everywhere she turned; it felt like they lived in a simulation mis-labelled as the Good Place. The materialistic creature would be wounded only by his own vices...vanity and profit. The Centaur had so much potential to set the world a little closer to its access; through lectures and grounded boots. The son of Peter would always be blamed for anything that gave hope to a prisoner; hopeful in early release from a sentence that had sealed his fate of surrendered independence.

The beast was lazily coerced into polite conversation: updating Artemis that he were a figurehead under a monarchy of a Questionable Queen and dusting off his musty suit. The same Queen that was protected by the Hydra...evidently held the title deed to the lands. He had been under direct orders of her...in procuring a large pipe to penetrate the land in search of liquid wealth. The Centaur took his chances and followed suit: turning a blind-eye to the pirates that exploited the Indigenous Warriors, as they kidnapped and sold them into sex slavery withing range of his view. An epidemic--that somehow involved the vast majority of the echelons, the overwhelming multitude of influencing forces. Those in charge in managing the hedges of funds; the non-existent currency held down by an aging Queen and a silenced land--famed for its fortune biscuits and socialist tyrant, casually committing Genocide over the population of myanmar and double-fistingly dictating over a once-flourishing Nation--guilty in holding hostage a whole Nation, from achieving dignified and sustainable independence.

The risky nature of capture and traffic seemed like a steep bet to place, for a man clinging to his marriage and struggling to appease a better-learned audience. Artemis held proof of targeted, illegal tying of golden tubes. She threw them atop a list of names; those existing only on paper for the time being. There was no proof of life, no receipted efforts in search and rescue to tack his smile in place amid uncomfortable confrontation. The Centaur confirmed that they were being targeted...for their rare genomes: their "mark-up value" for exotic sequences and virgins--meant, that they would only sold to the elite. The evils of wealth, helped feed their fetishes of “squaw” women and, or children...without a reign of legal consequences. The privilege of their sexual deviance was appraised--rewarded even with promises of affluence; destined for greatness...meant to represent the supreme justice that ruled their neighboring lands. Their leaders were now united by crimes, and divided by invisible lines that left both territories malleable.

Artemis was bored unless she were retaining new information, and she occasionally fell in stupors of daydreams--swaying from side-to-side in indifference. Bored by a world painted in black and white. She found distress in leaders that held the world captive with their politics and scandal. Artemis was cursed to remain half-awake, rolling around shamelessly in a feathered bed, or on high-alert-- sprinting towards an invisible finishline: an ambitious woman...barely surviving alongside her personal curse of being born a fetish into flesh. Her head dawning golden hair, and a broken wreath--offering comfort and financial independence.

She listened lazily, as he named beasts she hadn’t yet heard of and smirked as he stammered names of a few that she had already encountered. "I want names!" Artemis grew curious in anticipation, as to if the Centaur bought her scene of vindictive brutishness. In all reality; her mind was tampering through reasons as to why the Questionable Queen hadn’t mentioned the slaughter of her beloved Hydra to the Centaur. To be under a giants thumb, was to exist in word numb to the understanding of trusted independence.

Her small fist met a chiseled jawline and knocked around the plushed poof dangling from a silly stocking, an article called a toque--to a bunch of randoms. He seemed the most offended...by the lack-of-mention of the pivotal death of the guarding monster, and that gave Artemis blissful joy in knowing she was always two steps ahead of the fools in charge. She cracked her neck from left to right in a slow and methodical way...aroused by the details affirming that the Questionable Queen had gotten the message Artemis had plastered in blood...playfully painted along the enormous walls of her gaudy castle. Artemis was a pretty awkward person in this sense, as she stood in pre-programming mode or “daydream mode", and occasionally fell lost-in-the-sauce of her own poetic battle--drawn from the despair in her current environment. The shield of pages gave her a safe-haven to nest upon her semi-permanent words; its take-on value up for debate, its true meaning malleable.

She caught herself blinking slowly deep in thought, and avoiding a memory of a kiss that dismantled her life. Artemis asked him blankly: did I ever tell you about the pale mortal that stole my spices? The Centaur asked for permission to stand up once more in a timid voice, he could care less that Artemis had a life outside of political pages. She said nothing--turning to exit the large house without another word; clasping a bow and holding back a gentle admiration of herself. No blood had been drawn in the short battle with the Centaur. She needn’t dirty dainty hands with the blood of the animal, as it had only been the Questionable Queen that demanded her attendance in war council. Artemis celebrated this by traded her abouts, for aboots...a tribute to her bestie Yoyo: the sillier side of Artemis, and the only companion able to calm retreating waves of rage. Her battle hymns rang loudly in the thuds within her chest: giving stamina in moments vacant of self-confidence and reassurance to her professionalism being linked to the success of a developed nation, envy was a crowned jewel to world oscillating in its understanding of independence.

Like a preprogrammed rhythm, a fated experience--Artemis was destined to stand alone, to travel on with hopes of a better tomorrow. To find better treatment in places of employment, and baseline standards to uphold. Artemis would find necessity--in remembering that she could only rely on friends, and trust the rhythm of her waterlogged emotions. The suffering of an artist, was the loneliest of paths. Such simple beliefs gave Artemis faith, and kept muddled shades of grey from blinding her vision, and distracting her from the goals she wished to achieve. She carried on, aiming for a life free from labor and stressors--outside of those defined by her quest in academic and scientific independence.

Artemis would always be confused by compliments or words of appraisal: her wiring not compatible to transfer the emotions, for such positive inputs in overwhelming quantities. Her life had always been tragic; filled with the problems of others to keep reality at bay. Ryan had been a stolen star; ripped out of the fabric of time in moment. She had no proof that her life wasn’t a fucking nightmare; a hopeless quest--unbeatable and without reason. Artemis had no issue publicly stating her friends kept her in line, and that her life was vastly improved by their diversity. At the end of the day: her friends allowed expression without restraint, and with blind confidence in doing whatever was right first. Artemis was protected by an army of First Nations, and Indigenous Warriors--wrapping her in set expectations, and kind stories of a man too bright for a darkened world. Their commitment to her personal growth and development in processing his death had circuitously allowed her survive by a thread, and to sustain a semblance of her independence.

Next Chapter: *[ VIII ] Artemis and the Minotaur*