Artemis had wandered through the darkest of times, grinning and prospering with bare-minimum dignity: even for that of a beggar. The world had shown her cruelty, precautions in the topic of her existence and the Origins of the word Genocide. Her odyssey was simple: to stay alive on a timeline where neighbors were filled with unexplained evils, and or, indifferent in caring toward(s) the protected-class, those with otherwise an outlier existence.

Artemis’s battles were no longer fought by an army of one. Time had began softening the glares and snickers of people too entertained by the spectacle of her rainy parade--distracted by the triangles tempting the sky laws over one of the less extraordinary lairs belong to the Mechanical Boars. Colorful expression had given her the blissful confidence to wear proper amour when leaving the house, posting up in a corner cafe: bored of the prison she had created--the curses of foggy brains had meant Artemis was losing value as an intellectual asset, minute by minute. A kind-hearted, and interesting simulation formed around a woman hunched over words unforgiving--sitting in a state of youthful beauty, curled up in the gentle rains of a peaceful, shame-filled existence.

The true test of man, was to hold a fragile lotus in upturned palms without a drop of blood falling upon its petals. The blood-filled tears swept away her traumas--whereas, unrelenting time had set her blood ablaze at the flickering--the dubious flame of self-doubt. The slightest inconvenience in the smoothness blossoming behind social inequality; lay a threat at every turn. Why had she crafted an equation of three-bodies, and consumed the problems they perpetuated in such an incoherently stupid game?

The swaying of an indecisive woman between two stranger-like men had now captivated the audiences all around them. The men hoisting her upon a palanquin--lugged around by a slew of randoms: complicit in their obedient dedication to demanding the most from a woman they knew nothing of. Artemis had a wig of chords snaking along her thin neck--draping across the land she walked over: the world hid behind eyes wickedly blank--weary in fatigue from her body actively rejecting the simulation. Each step she took had been with purpose, reluctant guidance felt by ancestors fallen-over in defeat--clearing the path for her success with their forgotten lives. Artemis felt everything so deeply, and eventually began crying out for help in evolving her way of thinking. Wherever she looked: she saw masked faces and annoyed patrons, upset that she was lost in thoughts. The half-hearted acting had begun to dissolve the illusion that was once a battleground. Why had they thought their generic and unmemorable presence would spark her intrigue within a bored, board game?

Had they not cared that Artemis struggled with agoraphobia? Did they need her to craft “an experience” for their lives to hold meaning. Her life felt anecdotal--idle talk over a fancy dinner party, to be a royal member in a monarchical system, that one fierce Indigenous Warrior friend: forever the lone sufferer. Artemis needn’t a story to remind her of the hardships--but the physical game was essential in her commitment to humanism: forcing her to embed the pages with her sincerity and anguish alike. She needed to relish first-hand, to pin-point the fact she felt violated--each time the citizens blushed as she approached, or giggled behind raised shields. Artemis bowed her head in shame: knowing they had been right for being disgusted by her existence.

The woman had crafted a masterpiece--a timeless book for the ages, and yet she hated every sprawling dot of ink that bleed from its cursed pages. How had she gotten so lost in writing a poem aboot everything and nothing? Why had her soliloquies gotten so outta hand and abrasive in their nature? How long had these feelings and memories been bubbling up to the surface? The stupid book had haunted her dreams since she could remember. A shifting and unsteady hallway marked with red doors, caved with ominous lights-- flickering whilst resembling a murderous ambiance to that of haunted or eerie crime scene. She had needed the book to be purged from depths of her nervous system: detoxed, stripped reluctantly from her royal blood. Artemis felt her body ache in rot--how long had she been in a coma-like state? Had her intergalactic crew-mates remembered their invaluable existence?

Artemis loved brandishing weapons of sleek and sexy metal words. The shaft of a hilt rarely rested, too thrilled by the hunt to let her wrists excuse themselves from exercise. A trio-the fated curiae sisters were often foot-noted throughout the lore of the Gods. Their intrepid legacy had been their protected bloodline, and unprotected struggles: a prophecy each sibling would be destined to fulfill a youth of expediency, and an adulthood of expectancy. There was no time to self-reflect or cater to spells of self-pity in a world cruel, and left to be entirely unforgiving to the orphans born with such an undignified existence.

Throughout their mid-lives, Artemis caught wind of her former siblings, errors in the portrayals--if you will. Athena was not the warm mother that Artemis had remembered, but a stone-faced woman--without pride or self-awareness. Dianne was not her genius and courteous-self, but a woman embittered, broken down by trauma and chained to her leaned private prejudices. Artemis had wept; remiss to the beauty around her. There was an unforgiving separateness, lacking ardor to the bleak simulacrum of their ancestor-derived game.

Life was too short to give into perilous fear of the unknown. Artemis gave herself moments of self-forgiveness--remembering the glorious moments where an intricate crown gracefully was bestowed upon her head, countenanced to the verdict of a panel of judges, and the majority vote from her academic peers. To hold a position of prideful tutelary--was to be a still and delicate rose; rooted awkwardly in a garden of thorny shrubs. Artemis was a figurehead, a warrior of words--granted authority through a tightly-woven community, and ultimately nominated to defend public freedom without invasion.

Artemis remained proposing on one knee, presenting the world with a paper lotus--to uphold an intractable universe: missing a single, pernicious petal. The delicate aberration of Genocide was represented with a quintile prop, and a woman accepting the horrific things that had inextricably come to pass. The loss of a petal, could result in the consolidation of resources--the reduction of efforts, wasted away on a community; twisted in their blurred, ancient bloodline. Artemis was the pristine petal, standing far away from mendacious politics--unwilling to dip her hands in blood. She was the non-corruptible, an adversary ameliorate--to a world usurped in chaos. They had tasked the three sisters in elevating the consciousness of the world, to find skill in conceit as sacrificed arguries--tortured muses; proscribed to theocratic abuses, and left to regulate judgement to civil intolerance. Artemis had volunteered herself for the task--surviving the childhood abuse by defending an invariable boundaries and fleeing for her life in an innocent-enough childish game.

Artemis had the worst of circumstances, born the most lonely of the three: her suffering being a self-inflicted wound to the heart. Chained to a slew of men--holding their own separate competition: in the race of valor-ed suitor, a capite censi affair, leveled through time and the erasure of memories. Artemis had been cursed with immortality: a nonentity hunter--tracking the sloppy path of a delusional pontified elderly snout-ted beast. The censorial tribunal offering remained Artemis’s primary objective--to place the beast in a Hades of his own making, unable to die; too exhausted to flee--his Midas touch reverted to a cheir’d shuffle. Artemis had been the silent arbiter of opinions; stealthily leading the boorish leader to his superfluous destiny; two strangers blindly avoiding the other in the unscripted delineation of a mortalized game.

Artemis had been sent to discover herself as a single woman--needing tangible proof; that she knew how to exist outside of the compassionate embrace of Orion. She had wanted to be free from the lingering overt titles of wife, ex-wife, mother--even that of published author. Artemis had gone back in time to produce a machine: an indestructible perpetual mechanism to divvy out poetic Justice, to bring forth a clandestine future without the risk of being labeled a witch. The likes of a game, a book, and a solution for many of mortals’ vices--three bodies of truth to build an orbit protecting a dying universe. Artemis had sacrificed everything for this book, her mind being exhausted and riddled with madness--her body broken down to the brink of exhaustion, the essence of her sanity pushed to question the mere possibility of ones true existence.

How many of these dead-eyed savages had called her writing gibberish, unintelligible or incomprehensible at best? Much like a friendly Viking; the world seemed unsure of her modernity in expression and efficacy. She had a bored perfunctory in conversations mulled in sarcasm. Older people seemed easily-entertained by her lust for life, or held her to the fleeting expectations that were abandoned by their own families--clinging to the ashen legacy of ones own extinguishing existence.

Artemis had once awoken chained to a wall--a red ball in her mouth, gagging her from speaking to those that came to ravish an unconsenting body. One evening an Argonaut had appeared, a blonde-haired childish looking sir named Kenny. He removed the ball from her mouth, and they both stood in attendance to the Viking holding strategy. Artemis asked why the Viking remained looking past her; and the Argonaut explained that he was busy performing the act out in his simulation or dream-lecturing someone else for a change. Such little details, held exorbitant value to someone like Artemis; a friend weary of the Vikings, prideful and emissary traits. Staring at him in disbelief often disrupted his train of thought, and was something Artemis did out of respect; anchoring her attention to a moment, despite the dross-- regardless of how others treated her compassionate existence.

Artemis found the details of an episodic situation to be too fascinating and delightful in the silliness of the content. She asked why he seemed so angry by his own actions, and the Viking seemed to finally see her blinding smile. Artemis and the Argonaut asking the dazed man if he recognized her at last. He murmured through a clenched jaw, “it doesn’t matter”, and Artemis muffled giggles in an offended aghast to his reasoning. “That’s rude.” Artemis wasn’t sure how well the man would handle the retrieval of his truth(s) being found in the blatant possession of his gifted golden eggs; holding his name and presenting his gargantuan and volatile expectations in a stupid game.

The man kept placing a ribbon over her head; only to remove it with conflicting mumbles and grumbles at what he had done. Artemis had asked her respected Argonaut to save the compliment of his indecisive admonition for her to use later, knowing the Viking would be offended when he arrived lucid and searching for an old friend. There was no way to describe his funny waves of panic; the scuttle of a dismissive hand freed from otherwise crossed arms. The inclusion-trailed paths of a male friend--was meant to show the depths of caring of the suitors that lay on the heel of an aging Viking; to represent the clashing orbits of lovers and friends in a violently beautiful game.

They had traveled through galaxies and timelines: setting precedence for all primary characters to meet on one plane of existence. Artemis had wanted to entrap the worst-of-the-worst, gathering beasts and guiding them through their sins and crimes. Why had they done such atrocities; in a world of endless opportunity? Who could punish fairly, such impermissible monstrous beings? Artemis was the gatherer of lost souls; guider of the damned--the usher-er of justice--that gathered the heinous and imprisoned them to a static prison; a lone Indigenous Warrior--providing reneged confidence in the wake of death. To be alive, was to exist at the edge of the universe; to dive into the abyss of Genocide and accept ones truly condemned existence.

The story had been cast as a misdirected simulation, a skewed play--relying on the natural instincts of the players: the strategy of intent left a compromising position; where Artemis made the slightest mistake of trusting blood-relatives blindly. Her family held simple title of copatriots, ending all similarities at the door; dubbing Artemis to be an angel--born from emblazon paths of criminals. The craftsmanship of puppeteer; directing lies and chomping grills of an army of cursed mannequins in suits-the performative nature of it all had begun to tire Artemis beyond words, even in death. There were no points of agreement when it came to those that treated homicide and forensic sciences as a harmless game.

Artemis had protected Dianna from herself with a book--reminding her that their immediate family were criminals that had gladly dismantled her street credit, financial credit, and enthusiastically covered for the crimes of a family member. She had reminded a half-sibling of an aging conversation, recommending that she report the crime of false identity to the authorities--unrelentingly separating the crime from the household. Pirates and thieves had discredited a citizens hard work; day-light robbery and fraudulent activity were downplayed to tact the assumptions drawn when trusting the wrong the people. Artemis had been so annoyed that Diannes finances were the the paramount price to pay in a bullshit and unfair game.

Sometimes mental health services were only able to be sought, when the patient was guided by their own hand: Artemis had forgotten her sister Dianne was legitimate in the depth of her woes on the occasion, and the simulation reminded her of how to wield a caring heart--to cater to those she often forgot to appreciate in moments where someone had to be the defending party. Artemis provided invaluable legal procedure to a woman that taught the language of the hands; knowing it’d be dismissed for reasons of the wrong messenger--delivering the right message. Her time was wasted caring for the careless. Artemis had written a book to preserve her own sanity--to secure familial dignity, and eviscerate the cesspool of excreting feelings that were otherwise suppressed. Why had such ugly thoughts riddled her mind? Many-a-mortal, could relate to the level of exhaustion that fell over a younger sibling--left to fend for what was right alone; dismissed at the slightest proof of ones academic and worldly existence.

The guile tenderness that came from bullshit dogma forming one’s personality-often burdened Artemis’s heart. Her existence had been miserable, underappreciated--a monstrosity of a disaster. One horrendous event after another. One day, she left behind a cross--a token of blind faith. That version of naivete spirit had left her injured beyond repair--held at weapon point to an inevitable fate. The unrelenting talents in disappointing everyone around her gave little to aspire to. Artemis had ran for help once; fleeing to pursue the daydream of a single day; free of terror. The unremarkable filled moments of brevity. Hurried words were selected with precision; rushed the second time-pleading to Dianne: to leave behind their childhood. There wasn’t more than a conversation, or two--before Artemis realized that no amount of debate, could remedy an abused child in moments of emphasized importance. The worry of the whole troop, the judgement call in exposing the secrets stashed behind brimming doors--left Dianne unable to grasp a moment of control; the swirling chaos crashing down upon one’s whole existence.

Artemis had walked to seek aide for Athena; collecting words and balanced emotions over dinner. Kris and Julie were going to fix it. Accountability rang a bell through the ripples of time-and Artemis had crawled to the end of a road; wishing to help heal a woman scarred by time. The depths of Hades wouldn’t be able to bleed over to the far-reaching corners of Athena’s heart; Artemis had shielded her sister from the world each day. To be caring-- meant a stage dim lit-a silent bow over crowds of displeased strangers; to be unrecognizable in reflection and deeply lonely in fulfilling one’s efforts. Artemis had always gone back for others; armed and ready for the collision of oncoming disappointment--staring at an empty doorway and accepting that the world could-care-less about her stubborn existence.

Artemis crafted a game: where a cross was exchanged for a papered flower--and a blushing bride held up the offering of acceptance to the things unfamiliar to change. She’d be left taking knee and standing up in moments of pride. Triffling through thirty-thousand lifetimes and occasionally tossing aside a flower for an apple. To be mindful of a loosened petal; to be prepared for the consequences of such a travesty...fell gracefully over a metaphor for Genocide. In some simulations; Artemis would observe a detached petal and fall ill in worry. Colorful expressions of terror-filled gazes articulated the echos of a childhood; void of fun. She held no entitlement in this life; there was no bored moment to throw out the entirety of something deemed unwhole. She wasn’t a child--worried by a single droplet spilling over the responsibility of carrying ones cup. There’d be no panic-filled encore to cleanup--no petal to retrieve. The Universe had been so unfathomably unkind to Artemis--her Odyssey had been an impossible journey; a public ritual of humiliation--an embedded curse etched deeply into her genetics. There was no redeeming hero in her woeful tale; just a contemporary muse--attempting to draw sense or reason from an otherwise insufferable existence.

Artemis would rearrange the stars in the depths of space to hear Athena laugh--the woman had raised Artemis to invest in her comedic talent with an irreplaceable sincerity. Artemis had crafted her a game to occupy her hands--to protect her wounded body, whilst Artemis crawled across the room. The spiteful woman had taught Artemis to walk on all four with pride, accepting the fact that she’d tripped in a half-second of doubt. Artemis had forgotten that she was paralyzed from the waist down outside of her simulation. An uncomfortable side-note; for her readers that doubted her ugliness. Artemis had fallen into a sad state of laziness, rambling on like a Lieutenant named Dan in a thunderstorm--unafraid to admit her only talent had been breathing fire O’s and holding down uninspired naps. Her sisters had a mean way of selectively-forgetting her handicapped existence.

Artemis had returned to hear the echoes of her parents, the ones she cherished and adored. Life had gotten easier upon telling them of her worries of dying young, or worse: losing the Kind-Hearted Hunters first, and returning to her abandoned state of orphaned angst. She had petrified herself to be frozen in time. Too afraid of the world past her home--to risk losing the respect earned with sobriety, needed to want people around, and too afraid to admit--their presence was more valuable than any price-tag. Artemis had rounded out her emotions; expressing confusion--in not knowing what to do, where to go, and the cultivated shame felt beneath each drag of the knee. She had wanted to gain something other than pain from her un-romanticized coloured existence.

Why had this happened? Why had she come to this timeline? She had accidentally crashed her sky-boat into a floating dirt-clod. Her crew stranded to mingle with her criminal family. The outlier of felonious personalities--was just a person using their body-and-will to set boundaries. Artemis had wished to skip a round of duty in "the machine", and Hera had insisted: wishing to see the children she had once smothered with love. Parental consent had been part of the game.

Hera tasked Orion and his friend--to convince Artemis that she was losing grips with her humanity. She felt him looking down upon the shamelessness of an immortal--displaying lessening empathy over centuries. Artemis had let Orion treat her worse than a stray dog, life had probably felt like sleepwalking--moseying into a depression of malleable vulnerability. She had been the source of supply--for the qualities admired by others. His love was draining; reliant on their simpatico to compliment a romantic never-ending chase. The rewriting of a manuscript--the perfect duplication in script, would mean that Artemis had finally unplugged from such a exhausting romantic game.

Artemis had known her love for Orion was pitiful, shameless in its degree of yearning. There wasn’t much anyone could do, but to watch the scene play out and reset: since Artemis had been cursed with being born the apple of his eye. Orion used her body, he had bet and was rewarded from her affability and talents. He allowed himself to be the guest without honor--to be present in rooms otherwise unknown. Artemis had taken on the burden of upholding his meticulous mask; heavy in its entirety. Their arguments went nowhere; because accountability had nowhere to go. He saw her life, as a garish set to be manipulated or observed; and her emotions to be seen as a black hole-- tethered to a sullen, unfun, predictable and otherwise boring existence.

Why had Orion pretended to love her so deeply--if he hadn’t the reasoning or moral capacity, to respect marriage and himself enough to be faithful? Why had he dragged her on all fours across the land, as if asking the spectators to admire how pathetic she looked crawling behind him? Had he needed to see her humiliated...to understand that their love was arguably toxic? Had he gained an erection by looking over her, recalling wide-eyes and a youthful woman prepared to build an empire for the sake of love. When had Orion began pretending she didn’t exist a mere arms-length away? Artemis had seen his hand trembling, as he stood outside of her front door--uncaring to her feelings. Artemis removed the door--to remind him of his husbandly duties to protect their home. The bare minimum. Such were the dangerous rules that displayed their ancient love, a repeated series of events that was finally disrupted by the abrupt stomping of a moody Viking: yelling his feelings and squatting down to observe stones upon the floor. The careful man had a stern glare behind spectacles and a furrowed brow. Orion would forever be in a state of disapproval of those that had taken a part in the life of Artemis. The stages set by others; those that clashed with his opinion of her lowly existence.

Artemis was never unhappy per say, whenever forced to see the Viking. She had met him chatting away and commenting on his work performance and blood pressure. Old. Her caring had resulted in a dedicated stranger turning a pebble that supposedly held her world: observing each stone and attempting to validate her motives in their distant friendship. He was unable to comprehend someone being content with his grumpy, push-over existence.

Artemis had been the pebble in the boot of a Viking--one removed but carried around for luck. She had suffered from the curse of being “too much”; a woman of the ages--too distant to reach. A battalion of men had arrived at her door--each with the desire to scold her with words or bribe their way through mistakes with sex. She smiled with blushing cheeks, thinking “o my”, and wondering why each were handsome and cruel in their unique ways; none of their faces made it to her memory upon waking up. Reality had unique ways of mocking her existence.

Orion had loved her body with a passion that made her comfortable--never wanting to leave the range of his broad shoulders: never needing to leave their bed unless it were to hydrate or gain nutritional fuel to duel once more. The Viking on the other hand--had despised every part of her body: criticized every stone she gained or lost in casual conversation, causing her to be sick with body dysmorphia that was often kept at bay. The Viking was nothing more than a selfish audience member--subscribing to her personality and hiding behind static to keep his feelings in denial. The Viking was fairly-indifferent to anything other than his own reflection, and Artemis had foolishly rewarded him with her attention and probably one-too-many smiles. She had gifted him an apple--wandering why he was afraid to reach past his own reflection, and save those that had once respected him: the woeful left drowning beneath his shimmering waters. Artemis had been the gleam of annoyance--that sparkled and cast reflective glare and threatened his pale-blue eyes: sensitivity was the sole reason for Pygar’s self-blindness. She had been the anomaly to his boring life, the scattered wings of a silly hummingbird. The distractions of daydreams had been born in a single introduction--Artemis had been his first best friend. She was forever and always grateful to flit near him; casting smiles his way to boost his confidence and offering him cheerful support. The forever-grumpy man was utterly offended by her pumped up existence.

Artemis found the character trait to be enduring, but often chalked it up to insecurity to his aging body, grey hair, and stump-of-a-leg. She had given him every excuse known to man, and the idiot had imprisoned himself to narrowing view; fighting feelings or whatever his deal was. Artemis enjoyed seeing how closely she could roll up on his personal space--sniffling laughter directly beneath his gaze; interrupting his commitment to watching each step. “That’s rude.” Artemis had no reason to be nice to the man--he had made his many, many choices--barricading himself from the range of a stranger passing by his life. Many-a-pale-man...were indescribably afraid of Artemis in the daytime, and she found the cultural reaction to be warranted, albeit unwarranted. He claimed to want nothing from her, but the man would also clip his own wings--in the brazen and predicted disappointment of her failures. Artemis was loved by many and seen by nobody. A Hellenistic curse left her wandering from casual encounter to short-term relationship--rendering Artemis to be in a state of earned cynicism; unable to commit to love’s game.

Artemis had wondered which man would walk through the doorway first--she placed bets that a yelling Viking would stop by out of curiosity; needing reassurance that she was “normal", so that she may better fit his mold of convenience. The simulation had sent her Orion--strolling past an indecisive man in a horned hat: the man was dedicated only to the art of wasting time, opposing Artemis’s admiration and preoccupying his thoughts with the presumptive belief that her feelings were strings to be plucked and pulled; like controlling features of a skillful game.

Orion was famed among women, as a ferocious lover--an indisputable piece of arm-candy to marvel upon. He had been a direct cause of the Vikings’ neglect. Artemis had loved Orion shamelessly, eager to move forward to better days, and proud that the Indigenous Warrior somehow managed to love her slow-mending brokenness. The two men would undoubtedly clash in their agreements as to her place in the world. No amount of time could prepare for such an exhausting introduction of un-meshing characters--no amount of compensation could bribe Artemis into stepping directly into moments of misguided compassion. The fires of such sharp-tongued conflict held flamed opinions and charred assumptions--where the moral availability of her actions was often drawn upon the floor for all to judge; each prodigal step anchored in the overlooked self-doubt that Artemis tirelessly hid away from the public’s existence.

Artemis was always left honoring the promises to her cultural background, forced to fit the narrow spaces--filling the cut-out sets passing by with time. Her favorite Indigenous Warrior had been so fearless in displaying his affections for Artemis. The mighty man had grabbed her by the wrist, and steered her from a simulation of compiled failures. Artemis was nothing more than a wandering muse, drowning in self-pity and confusion--gazing longingly at the waters of the famed River: Denial. Orion had removed the apple from the grasps of the Viking; uncareful as to his status of placeholder. Jealousy couldn’t explain away the friendly gesture of caring; and Artemis had wanted to clarify the Vikings need to weave himself into her life. There was no reasoning, just the edges of emotions, pushed away ritualistically--bleeding over to the brim of a lone petal. The Viking had been nothing but helpful, boastful, resentful, and withholding from all that was Artemis’s delicate existence.

Orion had needed her to be in the world, to provide dichotomy in a fever-dream--whereas, the Viking lived comfortably in his blatant denial that she had managed to survive his affections and recollect dignity: unyielding to the endless suffering. The haste strokes of Terre Verte lay beneath her complex personality; unable to to justify an unapologetic laughter--too afraid to admit her smile haunted him. Orion had no issue finding new and innovative ways to spite every fiber of her existence.

Artemis had bled herself dry, ripping her soul in two to keep inflamed laughter alive for: the sanity of men deemed important for one reason or another. One, had needed Artemis to throw herself under the proverbial golden chariot--longing for her to admit that she was the pathetic piece of shit beneath his feet. To beg and plead for a moment of acknowledgement, and to cast royal judgement on his opposition and half-hearted efforts to offset--a pale and apathetic culture. The Viking wasn’t "like the other girls", he was openly noncommittal, but still unsure as to how he fit into an equation built upon the intergenerational failures of a hateful situation.

Orion, on the other hand--had needed her to hurt. To mend the brokeness and prove his place as a captive to her gaze, a man relinquished to bound strappado and a title of partner. He had mortared the brightest forms of life from her laughter, and attempted to move blame to anyone and everyone. The Viking had just been a distant and reoccurring character--he fit the bill for all the things needed to mask deep insecurities. Artemis was torn to bits--shredded between the longing of Orion’s touch, and strange okay-ness felt in the presence of a moody Viking. Artemis had given the pair a single apple; knowing the two men would always chose competition and step-up to play an unwinnable game.

Artemis raised the weapon to her head; silent and all knowing. The orchestra understood the passive melancholy of a woman running through light sprinkles, basking in the fluttering cherry blossoms falling to the soils below with purpose. Her life could be turned over in a season; condensed to the trials of a Wedding Impossible--truncated to a journey of a man seeking path to a sullen wife; afraid that his actions may hold consequences untethered to the reach of the law, unwilling to defend harmful actions or nullify contracted stipulations drawn out by Artemis and her family. Her need to preserve ego gave way to a path of encouraged growth, and set unbending circumstances. Artemis had no intention of treating her marriage like a neglected game.

Her soggy Metropolis followed suit: painting itself with blush-filled petals upon its walkways--offering a change in weather to turn the season. Had the citizens not heard her meticulously crafted anthem of freedom and valor? Had they not witnessed her might first-hand? Why had she never been enough for this place? Why had the citizens used their state-taxes to hold complicates in her capture and torture as a child? Did they take pride in the patriotic values of the land--a land stained by an unpleasant history of slavery and pedophilia? Such answer-less questions held her captive to the experiences gathered in an average impoverished childhood. The wickedness of inaction had plagued the majority of her pathetic existence.

Had they not appreciated the black and white colors--splashed over the pages of her magic parchment feverishly? The day of judgement had been a ritual asked for, prepared for even--and yet, the citizens were unprepared for a battle of moral compromise. Artemis had been sent to prepare the world for the relinquishing clock of mortal judgement; sent to a hopeless dimension to prove the state of selfishness of the citizens. The entire polis was on trial for its mistreatment of children; and Artemis had been the equalizing force--the sample, valued at the efforts of a community. The statement of one’s strength could be attributed to its treatment of the innocent--the children left in the dark to starve; to lack nourishment in attention, care, nutrition and forgiveness in the throws of a helpless, and unchangeable existence.

Entitlement promulgated through each interaction with the lost settlers. Artemis was too wise to rely on feigning shyness--unwilling to entertain strangers demanding her name; barely an hour away from midnight. Her fervor for the soggy metropolis lay hung up on doors of employment. The polis lay in a state of unrest, held hostage by shitty tourist--demanding the locals sing and dance outside their places of employment, or risk unfair judgement culminated by one experience. Artemis sat on a bench, longing to be left alone to enjoy sacred smoking sessions, standing guard over the smoldering fires caught on by a misguided rebellion; those conflating vandalism with humanitarian efforts. Her life felt like a nightmare; standing despondent center stage-where health was unilaterally cared for, excused for the outward smile. Hospitality was all she was good for-to procure the comforting of others and devalue one’s own existence; to drain one’s own social battery for the sake of others feelings...for a town damn-near-obsolete and over-taxed. The misery of the locals was unfettered; boggled-down by the realistic scenes of people swaying in their inflicted diseases of selfishness. The perennial curses of self-wallow, and aggrandizing entitlement--were conceptual points of focus; that reflected the true cost of freedom and the just rewards for those that fought to preserve Democracy. The house-less population was given more resources and empathy than the brave individuals that fought for bloodless soils. The settlers were ultimately doomed at the mercy to their own parameters set forth in a "Traditional" diabolical game.

Artemis had nothing to gain by writing a novel, offered nothing upfront outside of the gentle tipping-of-history, and the sense of a full-picture being drawn out to justify all that she had known. Blood began dripped from her hands, plucking away at worn-down threads had caused irreparable damage; she was urgent to destroy the beast held within. Orion and the Viking remained standing nearby--appalled, by the dexterity of her topics and salacious understanding of mankind. Artemis was morbid as shit. Spooky as fuck even. She was surrounded by the ugliest of beings, namely--the distant family that screeched and squawked over her shoulders. The simulation was only gifted to children surviving extraordinary renditions, and her shitty family was willingly proving their lustful desire to pick her apart each day--clawing away at her pitiful existence.

Artemis had drawn up a story to appease her angry Papa Jim--a man she had hardly remembered hurting her sexually as a child. It had been true, that the mistreatment of fostered children...the prisoners to the State--held high risk to harming the Nation, more than any foreign adversary could. She had just been the luck one, brave enough to go get help--to cease the suffering if only for a day--demanding a single breath, unburdened by the mistakes of her ancestors. She was hardened by decades of "winning", taught to take a page from Sabrina; told to hold an outward grin and crude gesture of boastful victory. Artemis was given lessons on living by Swanner, a silent-ish man holding the Mark of a beastly mortal--suppressing one’s witness and testimony, for the sake of preserving those competing in a dangerously perverse game.

Artemis had wrote an entire book-pernicious and beautiful, to prove that a stockpile of bad things could have a good outcome. Something new and detailed had blossomed through a series of poems, once made for no one- distateful truths dripping over the edges of her pages. Such amidst the beautiful processes of self-discovery, and evolution into a character-unlocked by each of life’s lessons: unable to declare instances as a few bad apples to her experience--mature enough, to accept the reality of a bad barrel. The unsettling customs of the settlers were pernicious in their extreme religiosity; unbending to the idea of those surviving in a diverse, unchangeable existence.

How many times had she died? How many times had she been given another chance: if only to prove that sobriety could be found through a self-drawn conclusion, dignified by asking for help and meaning it. Her sobering rubric was born from an errant love-torn path, seeking refuge to fortify a place to mend heartbreak and gather higher education. Narrowing goals--left her to take a lead, to pull reigns in an otherwise unbeatable game.

Artemis had nothing but a better life ahead of herself, and the absence of these men had only made her life easier to cope with. As unfortunate as that sounds. One would cut her down, ready to mock her intelligence and lack of life-experience. The other would believe in her words catering to her moods without argument, and told himself apologies were needed when they weren’t, all to propose as a duty he despised. Such were the awful affections of two fools-indecisive as to what they really wanted from Artemis. Each inching toward her: needing her to stay stationary: if only to prove that she needed them. Artemis did not. The world had taught her cruelty at a young age; gifting her with the insight of pain in losing someone--to be abandoned by all those that once claimed to appreciate her existence.

The earned, learned and mastered the art of prima facie--the need to survive; left Artemis with a soft sway of confidence. A trance-like gesture gifted to most hopeless romantics: her heart always excited to erase the two men that chose to pull her in opposite directions. Artemis had chosen to put on fine cloths and linens each morning--to enjoy her youthful beauty, as a single woman without care, ready to cease the day and make life her bitch. She was finally free to be, enthralled to meet this woman that everyone had been so eager to hunt and destroy. Artemis had cast her spells of charm and mischievous intrigue into a book: if only to remind herself of her own beauty, and to publicly validate her once-overlooked existence.

Artemis was bound by no ring, no tether tied off to a penis. Just a woman-- raped by the world repeatedly, and spit upon by the jeering laughter of the citizens passing by. She had felt every word they cast her way, harnessing the shame of her hunched back in the isolation of her cave. She too--was in denial that it all had come down to such sad circumstances. The chambers were cold, lacking any form of homey warmth. Artemis had forced herself upon the stage of the world once more--to avoid the mirrors that reminded her of the ugly smiles of the citizens. Their hunched postures and strange whispers had caused a rift in her consciousness and impacted her dreams to include their strange gestures and murmurs. How long, had she been allowing them to make fun of her naked glory? Why had they taken pride in their two-wheeled parades, and the naked pale citizens that participated--but, snickered as she had been chastised as a slut, for rocking her female figure? Hypocritical commentary plagued her unbeatable game.

Artemis worked her-ass-off, to keep her bum perky: her long-term goals being; to always look at least ten years younger than the surrounding counterparts. It had worked so far, and the dead-eyed savages took notice only after their similarly pigmented candidates had failed to conjure a story and beat the “unbeatable game”. Artemis sprinted to the finish line, abandoning her apples, her drunken and immature “men”, and the patriotic values she had once held close. There was no room for excuses in the throws of Genocide’s game.

The weapon of due-judgement was considered moral superiority in her culture. Artemis felt the Ivory growing around her body--Thriving to consume her alive, and to drain her of all life. They had buried her in a marble statue, and when that was destroyed, she became trapped in a huge statue--crouched over and offering aide to nobody. The woman had been cursed with the disease of a statured angel; unable to weep unless she was safe in the comfort of aloneness. A woman that was destined to be alone, forever running from the “love” of men: a Goddess turned to stone--a woman locked-away, and bound by different laws of time. The woman had used her friends and crew to lock away her once beloved Papa Jim, unable to accept his sins or grapple with his detrimental role in the development of her character: the monster had been the key to power the machine and inspire the cursed book into existence.

Artemis was bored of people not listening, and so she cast her immortal hand to the left carelessly: swiping away whatever annoyances she pretended to not hear. She scratched her belly in a way that devalued her poised persona, and said “that’s what I said a zillion chapters ago, I locked him away in the Nadesico.” A code word for Hades on Earth. Artemis had always wanted to flip tables--to throw a royal fit like Andrew, whenever people needed an explanation for “her madness”. She was exhausted by the premises of knowing everything, and the idea that her brain was stunted by chemical imbalances. Her body was that of a child, her mind that of a middle-aged woman, and her skin, golden-brown: the hue of the honeys that had once been sent down from Olympus. Artemis had been captured, and sealed away with criminals--an angry officer, holding down the locks of a prison within a prison. Artemis had protected the fabric of time and space, by trapping herself into a golden apple with the monsters that hid in the closets of the mortal mind. Volunteering herself for a one-way mission, to encase the Titans that casually terrorized the lands found within her simulated game.

The reader had probably said to themselves at some point--“what’s worse...what type-of-beasts; could there possibly be, so awful, so reprehensible, to stand in comparison to that of the Mechanical Boar and his perverse cronies?” Artemis had waited as long as she could; the surface layer of patience had been worn unbearably thin--leaving her an anguished poet; giddy to fulfill her justified tale, and unable to lessen her grip over the controllers of an unbeatable game.

She had stacked stone upon stone: her towers balanced--her anger validated, for Artemis had promised to never shed blood in her life as mortal. There had always been an exception to the laws of nature: her will to live was proof of mortal might, and her smile occasionally led to an exception or two being thrown at her feet. Artemis had handled the darkness; through broad grins and raised bubbles (a weapon of inspiration) over an excess-driven population...too lazy to care that a woman of colour somehow kept molding circumstances into success. She was a force to be reckoned with, heels clicking in defiance, and a freshly-pressed blouse buttoned up to misguide a half-way conservative audience of a Traditionally "Ink’d existence".

Artemis had nothing to prove, no lies to spin--just the truth and a family of talented individuals that praised her endlessly. Celebratory meals were reserved, all done to congratulate her need to improve the quality of life given to herself and those around her. She had drawn out a crowd of three at first--holding captive an empty-ish auditorium with the Kind-Hearted Hunters that had gifted her with love, and an army of unknown numbers: all to thank her for trying her hardest...to be the best man possible: a two-spirited woman without a guide, and no partner to validate her beautifully complex existence.

Artemis held in her suspense-driven breath, filling the music with Dead Space. The void-of-anger: building up to the crescendo she had been mulling over for weeks. Her life had been so beautiful, and awful. She allowed somber music to creep-out from beneath wrapped wires--needing the citizens to fear her lack of excitement in wordplay. Artemis had one-shot, a single chance to capture the beast in sight--to nail his saggy ass to the hypothetical wall of the simulation she had crafted. The knick behind a right ear--indicating his guilt. It was the beginning of the end--proven by a few droplets of blood, slowly bleeding from beneath a scab left bothered. The combed tuft of a Mechanical Boar did little to make his hair look less matted. The man was too daft, too senile to accept that he wasn’t the main character in Artemis’s game.

The strings began to needle and rasp--unable to comfortably abrogate melody between a horrific introduction of heavy brass instruments and bass drums. Artemis felt her body stiffen. The prisoner knew he was being spoken of, and so Artemis withheld his name. For the Narc (narcissist) criminal got pleasure in haunting his victims--summoning for their attention whenever bored, no matter the hour. He was like a childlike with his obvious desires to garner supply in attention. Artemis took pity on the Mechanical Boar, upon realizing he wasn’t weaponizing his incompetence--only testing the limits of the law built-up around him. All She had done--was point out discrepancy in his taxes and real-estate dealings with a paper cut behind an ear; knowing the stubborn individual would rather bleed to death, than seek extra medical attention--if it meant taking a momentary step back from his political game.

Artemis had anchored the Mechanical Boar to a cursed timeline; beloved by a death-row inmate named DeAngelo. Named after Mary’s husband, the monster-of-a-man had terrorized his victims for decades; whispering recounts of their rape in excited breath: forcing men into circumstances of unspeakable anguish. The man had spent decades kidnapping citizens, raping women and children, and emasculating men with their helplessness in protecting their own homes. Artemis had thrown herself into the future to seek justice. Not for the crimes he had committed, no…Artemis had planted herself into the simulation called Hades, as she too was once marked as wicked: with the one guilty pleasure of supporting the penalty of death by the State. Suddenly, Artemis felt the citizens collectively hold their breath. Artemis had admitted the worst of her sins with pride. It had been well-within her rights, and her freedoms to love such a barbaric practice, but alas here they all were. Artemis--being the only one brandished with the title of evil, for her truths and acceptance of true crimes; eradicated or made fair-enough, by appointed death from their shared plane of existence.

Artemis had wandered into a skewed timeline-filled with off-colored personalities, purge-ready expressions, wandering lost upon a futile timeline. Passion for ones occupation wasn’t recommended, profit and trash management began to rip a timeline into shreds. The turn of a team would state all that needed to be announced--longevity in craft was no longer the norm; outside of the beasts like DeAngelo...who hid behind a job and shield to obscure his identity. The bad apple hid in plain sight, by standing in a barrel of rotting fruit. The canonization of personality and trade--had set out the red carpet for a Mechanical Boar: the citizens laid down; ready and reared--filled to the brim with nonsense, all victims to his luridly corrupt game.

Artemis knew this world to be wrong, insincere, unable to be the real life, for some idiot citizen had--gone out of their way to stop in the middle of a busy road: putting his life and chariot in harm’s way, to capture her portrait without consent. The doses of paranoia that encased her depression had rationalized his clout-chasing, and she began to scratch away at the surface of the simulation in her boredom. The project would need to be scrapped anyways, but at least this way--she could tell the citizens to fuck off. Pointing out the errors to avoid during their next trials with impromptu turns and flicks of the wrists. There was a looming sense of being set-up-for-failure with each turn in her journey. There seemed to by nothing but endless suffering to pave her overlooked, undervalued, and overworked existence.

They would need to craft a simulation without people--since they had proven themselves to be fucking dolts. Artemis had once held a profession in acting as the fly along the wall, a lady walking by, so the lack of professionalism in the simulated environment bothered her immensely. She found it pathetic that they needed to be vocal with their hands in her presence, pointing out her tiers of failure, her need to smile--objecting the offering of an apple, and to fall back into a starting position. She felt her neck crack with utter disgust to these citizens, having more respect for those lost wandering and murmuring to themselves, than the public servants using tax-funds to sit in a cafe and mock her struggles. Artemis wasn’t stupid in the slightest--she raised a velvet red curtain and set a stage of valiant expressionism on a Wednesday. She had needed to display the lazy ignorance of the citizens--those entrusted with the simple task in keeping up the illusions of her probability-driven game.

Artemis turned her head side-to-side, watching as the civil servants sat behind her doing nothing for almost an hour. Artemis wished she had been paid to do nothing, but alas--she was brown and angry. Artemis was not surprised by their laziness, nor their ability to embezzle services from the citizens. They had to be held to the same “high standards” that Artemis needed to uphold under her Blue Shield of Hope. Willful ignorance had bled over into the all offices of public servants, all taking lead from an aging man-lazily dictating over the land, as though it were a cheapened off-brand game.

They had been the reason why citizens hated all public servants, their laziest held the most power to delineate the efforts of all other public factions. Artemis hadn’t the luxury of not giving each day one hundred percent of her efforts--nobility of purpose ran through her veins. Her anger was stemmed in the harassment she had endured--when working under the Blue Shield of Hope. The ephemeral belief of equality was fleeting--the enigmatic choices of another, laying a patriarchal boot over her throat; tempting her to breathe without permission. There was no place for brown excellence or intrepidity in a the thin shadow--outlined by a single pale-man’s existence.

An officer having escorted Artemis form her own offices, his hand itching towards his weapon at seven in the morning on a weekend. The man had woken up with murder on his mind, and a strange woman with a respected position, a single desk-decorated by accrued certificates of academic achievement and a coveted badge holding endless opportunities--were all at his disposal with the flick of a wrist. Success, enigmatic to his own beliefs taunted the man--he forment a plan to better-humble a stranger, and to enforce his sociocentric expectations as to her value in the orbit of his blessed existence.

Artemis had asked him not to criminalize her, wondering the depths of his galvanizing efforts to displace a civil servant. The man followed her around the office and kitchen, watching the potential criminal clean a pot. She was still obliged to move through venal closing/opening tasks with an audience, because her adult interns were unable to move through the day without internal conflict as to who deserved to do manual labor in washing a single dish. The pale man escorted Artemis from the building with a wicked gleam in his eye, he had asphyxiated her dream in the span of thirty minutes. Dismantling decades of hard work, and demoralizing a scholar from ever trying to sprint past expectations set by those eager to devalue her entire existence.

Artemis had worked her whole life to earn a badge that tied her to the land, the citizens longing for hope. A small badge was meant to protect her from the tithes of a Mechanical Boar, and all those that hated her beautiful olive skin. Artemis held a prominent position as a walking target. All of it had been for nothing. She would recall the undignified stroll home--weeping, trembling in fear of whatever she had down wrong to warrant such dehumanizing treatment. She hadn’t a weapon--she hadn’t even cast words of ill-intention his way: Artemis had simply asked why, such official credentials weren’t enough to be left alone to one’s job, to carry on with hourly work without the presence of an armed threat--harassing her professional existence.

The man took immense pleasure from her despair: his grin wavering as she walked away without fight. The small man; would never be asked to pay for his sins in criminalizing Artemis. The world had taught him to question her success at all costs. Artemis stood firm at her delegated post: she would spend eternity torturing the man’s dreams, all in fair-fight to a battle he had waged for no reason. He was the severing momentum needed to pluck a single a petal from a flourishing lotus. The man would spend his life alone, running away from mirrors, the haunting pages of a book cast by a stranger he had mistreated and forgot about. The man was proof the evolution was hindered by only those sensing threat to their preconcieved script of how the world should/could treat those pulling generations of diversity from the depths of Hades--and the undeniable winds that worked tirelessly to prove Artemis’s commitment to remain unmovable in such a lowly existence.

Artemis was free to tell her story, unafraid of the man that had once displayed an excited finger upon the handle of his weapon. She had nothing but violence planned for him--she had wrapped his efforts into a poem for safekeeping. Artemis had told her higher-ups of the harassment, only to be met with light-hearted jokes and slight indifference. Artemis corrected the tone of PhD Ws: they were both men of science, and she hadn’t any reason to lie to her boss. She said firmly “no, I’m not trying to be the dead intern on the news”--the stakes of her brown presnce were held beneath the things unsaid. A strangled voice led to a kind man--casting a public blanket of protection over her within an instant. Her voice had broke...a stranger had broken down her dreams. It had all been for nothing. The words that almost fell effortlessly were heard by the only person able to defend her professional existence.

Why had her life been less valuable? Artemis reminded him of the machine that churned out stories, and swayed the public opinion of government funding. Luckily, he had heard Artemis’s fear ringing in the ends of a hushed sentence: he gave her a second--to regain control over her sniffling and politely averting gaze of a woman holding everything in. The man believed in data and science--(unlike their co-worker Shirley), and so he wielded his directorial authority; to reflect how “not-ok” it had been, that the stranger with a star had threatened Artemis, and even hindered her public duties. There was no argument that the man was simply offput, and deranged by the mere facts of her somewhat-accomplished existence.

The meeting room was drawn into the converstaion: her interns seemed confused when the topic had been addressed over a large conference table. The young engineers hadn’t the faintest clue of what such hostility meant. Her world was so much uglier than theirs. They avoided looking at Artemis, as she was always cast as the troll in the earned experience they had manifested. Their delusion of excellence was tainted by a single story that included none of them. More-often-than-not, Artemis felt great discomfort when pulling-focus...because she was put in situations where brightly shining stars were seen as exhausting, overrated, and or polarizing. They sat in the silence, nobody apologizing for the way the world approached her unwelcome, and slowly fading existence.

Artemis was forever an endangered citizen, attempting to refrain from posthumous legacy, and needing to remain in the moment--defending "two worlds": whilst walking between two spaces of reality. Artemis had changed her office hours to accommodate her interns and their productivity--forever annoyed that the petite woman had been hand-selected to “mentor” them. Their comfort had put her in the direct path of danger, their words had placed her far away from a team needing fun and laid-back leadership. Then there was Artemis, "ugly" as the intern Brenda had called her--when she filled in the playful gaps in a deck of cards. She had held a conflicted smile, watching everyone snicker and mumble in a circle built for games. Brenda had never known what ugly was....until she met Matilda. Cards meant to bring out the worst in humanity were aimed straight at her head--stray insults were hurrled at her expense. The instance was a keen example--of how little people thought of her, how small the world needed Artemis to feel at all times. That was all she had known. The subtle nuances in changing of scenery added to her deviated data, Artemis was forever cursed to be a loser: half-heatedly apologizing for making others uncomfortable with her orphaned existence.

Artemis chose to simmer her blazing moods--half bored of her company: half afraid, of the more evil version of herself that was probably chasing her through time and space. She was no longer that childish individual; running home to tell someone that there was "a joke" made about Artemis committing mass violence on a school. Her silence frightened people--her smile worried others, giving perplexity and concern, as to what worldly pleasures were options to be gifted to a person born with nothing--a person that deserved nothing. The only thing more frightening than herself...would be the Rogue version of herself on another timeles; that had never been coddled by the Kind-Hearted Hunters--A woman without moral compass or reason(s) for peaceful existence.

Artemis had finally stopped, watching as she wept at the sight of her once beloved Papa in a dream/nightmare. Did she really remember fainting in his attendance, and waking up to see him blankly staring at a shrub-his hand fumbling below her dress? Why had he parked the chariot along the garden end of the shoppe and stared off with a dissociating glare of determination? Why had they secluded her from the discussions around a rape kit? Hadn’t anyone cared enough--to follow up on the miraculously growing stretch marks and vagina irritation? No. Hera had declared such an event never occured, despite the obvious bed-wetting and mood-swings and tears that fell endlessly. Hera crowned a child to be a preverse liar for-all-of-time, from that day into eternity. They spoke of Artemis, as though she was invisible-- hushed voices disagreeing with a medical professional as he inspected her child-sized vaginal cavity: forcing Artemis to faint--staring at nothing on a foam-tiled ceiling. Where had she gone during such turmoil-drenched memories? A child under the age of ten--forced to bond with Papa Jim at his many requests, isolated from normality. He had spoken of kits surrounding her past filled with infant rape, and attempted to excuse recent scaring. Such unforgotten evils, were the memories Artemis was forced to relive in worsening dreams--the things she had once casually drank over: indulging in a poison that aided in wiping her memory clean. If only for a night. These were the sick parameters that had made her beggar soul eligible as an ideal participant in a dangerous beta game.

Her life was beautiful and disastrously tragic. Bespoken by others opinions--confined by chornicity in lowering expectations set by legit strangers. The fragile lotus in her hands began to curl upon its tips, browning with the intent given by others. The smallest of the petals had fallen away-holding her small voice in a cannon of others arguing as to her failures and exhausting efforts. Artemis knew when people didn’t want her around-she had been raised in jarring silence, "nurtured" by Hera’s hissing voice--reminding her to care of what the neighbors thought. Her childhood was nothing more than a imprisoned time-filled with torture and a strange woman claiming to be exasperated by the awfulness that came with fostering Artemis. The words ink’d in stone became threads of gold-broadening by the day and canvasing into the form of a blanket, a woven experience strong enough to eventually swaddle and protect her from a beastly mortal that assumed Artemis would move past mistreatment with time. Artemis adjusted her posture at the mere idea of such an horrific person wandering around a free citizen; content she’d gotten away with treating child abuse as a learning game.

Artemis felt the Colosseum quake all around--a nightmarish event of public spectacle; the cheers swirling with trepidation as to the next move--she had been knocked to ground by lifes dealings, weeping on her knees and offering the world a broken lotus--poisoned by the soils laid down generations before her. She had mustered the courage to say enough--with a simple motion of propping herself over a single ninety-degree knee. The crowds erupted with cheers, unleashing bloody tears of confusion from a scorned woman, comfortable with the fact there wasn’t a playbook to life. Heathen by way of public opinion, given nothing to better prepare her for the assimilation of stepping into a room, a tax-paying citizen overnight. Artemis was delighted to be considered an Average Joe, filled with angst and sheer disappointment in all the world had offered so far, but ready to try and win at all costs. Artemis let out a battle cry; weeping uncontrollably with raised arms...as if to tell herself "I can do this". She had wanted to believe that life could offer so-much-more than the trauma she had survived--to contend the lowered expectations given to those tossed-away at birth, those stripped away from the concept of loyalty. Artemis took loyal care in herself--determined to claim prize in a dignified existence.

Artemis had once been titled as the God of War--her wings cast in fine metals that glimmered in sunlight; braced with a halo of enlightenment. Artemis was ten-feet-tall in comparison to most men--making her eligible for a Hunt, to secure reasoning upon a planet; imprisoned to its own bullshit ideology. Artemis had been erased from the history of the Parthenon: for having slaughtered a plebeian in bad temper--after losing in an archery match. The woman had intentionally spilled wine upon her crispy white robes, and smirked--she wasn’t fond of Artemis recalling Blakes insomnia, proceeding the murder of an innocent animal. The woman with red straw hair loved to lie, more than the life of her own child. A Siren anchored to a timeline--given the title of a mother at one point; redacted by the death of Caylee. It didn’t take much to introduce the individual with a sickened heart--as she had carved a permanent name for herself as a delusional sociopath and pathological liar. Artemis had slit her throat in a confusing dream; needing the lies to end. Time travel had worn everyone down--and eventually Artemis had reached the end of the road; blissfully bored of the Good Place, and offended that Caylee’s mother bore ovaries--when other women suffered from infertility. Artemis had grown weary of immortality, and secretly wished to return to her humble roots: needing to find value in culture and loss of religion--realizing humility guided her moral compass. The crew of those traveling alongside her were equally lost, aimless in their endeavors. Artemis had needed to find her humanity once more: to value mortality, loss and all the bottomless emotions that were gifts to those restricted to race against time--to be held at life’s knife-tip, forced to accept the things that came to pass--to be the rock anchored in a raging river, holding sense and command over an unbeatable game.

Next Chapter: [ XLVII ] Artemis and the Laurel Wreath