M.S.B.
[ XLVII ] Artemis and the Laurel Wreath
Artemis often gazed at her feet, an avoidance tactic she had learned from the Viking: a silly way of wondering what she was supposed to be looking for, as well as practicing careful strides beneath her crumbling spine. Artemis had been sucked into a story of criminals and souls with darkness that held no Western name. They were the sick horses: needing to be killed out of mercy of their suffering, hidden behind actions of their inferior genetics. The models of dead-eyed savages had been tarnished following the great flood that had occurred during her last incarnation. Artemis had needed her book to get to the fucking point: if only create more space and time for edits and drawings. Her body wasted away as she wandered aimlessly through dreams and memories: the citizens making her mind sick with paranoia to the glances and laughter the cast her way shamelessly. She had eventually felt a strange sensation of breaking within her heart: she was either insane, or part of an experiment. They had let her believe that she was borderline out of touch with reality, and it forced her to write a book: taking back her own power from these sleazy citizens.
Artemis felt her heart at ease, racing home from work to hangout with a fellow influencer(s): Cody Ko, and Cyds. They had reminded her that the golden apple conjured hope within those cursed with being different. Artemis had wept: forgetting the rules of the game had given her the view of seeing those at risk of their memories dying within the simulation. They were like her: spirited and passionate with words and opinions. They were also left with the boulders that forced them to smile as they pushed it over a hill, left with no other option in finding the humour in watching it roll over the mounds of Hades: rolling it back up over its trail the other way the following day. A dumb feat to need validation over, but the two had done so with such grace that Artemis worried of their emotional wellness. It had been the two extraordinary speakers that inspired her to waste her body away as she sucked her mind dry trying to read clues to a better future. They had said the two were in trouble, trapped in a prison called Tartarus. Artemis had come to spare the few: extracting even fewer, a reincarnated Captain retrieving a handful of exceptional individuals to complete or reinstate as her former Crew.
Such loneliness was without cure, an echo cast from the cursed vice that Artemis spread across the land. It was an empty sadness that followed the silence of laughter, and his comedy would change the world. Artemis gifted his younger self a plush tiger that called herself Kelsey. A silly totem to remind him of the love and truthful laughter that was searching for him. His father had a way of cutting him down, unaware his strange sense of humor was unique in its foreshadowing of “clean” entertainment. Artemis was that kind of Captain: needing specific qualities to craft a better future, her talents running low, and her mortal body failing at the hands of an abusive past. Artemis had nowhere to run: nowhere to call home. She was just a woman named Sir. A poor girl forced to speak with eloquence and ladyship: an angry soldier, disarmed to better serve the citizens.
Artemis said “I like to learn new shit”. Wondering why people were surprised whenever she let herself regurgitate knowledge on the spot. Why had everyone thought she was daft in her presence? She had only inspired crowds with short skirts and glittering bows in her youth: Artemis was eager to be taken as seriously as she took herself. Artemis hadn’t really a whole lot of exposure to women that don’t need anything from her, and she enjoyed the company Cydnee: in teaching her proper technique in applying makeup, along with some well deserved tea time. Her blue eyes made Artemis shy: for she had the occasional compliment on her strange eyes. It was an odd compliment, as Artemis had “poop brown” eyes. Artemis had the fortune of running into the pilot Roro, and she had confirmed that her flowers were tucked out of sight: yammering that Artemis was a proverbial hot mess, and fixing the newly nestled dandelions she had let fall askew. She had cherished the honesty, and the homie had brought her into the future with her acceptance of her manic moods: grabbing her face and slobbering on her nose if Artemis attended a sleepover. The toothless smooches of an innocent baby: a future citizen left in the line of fire of the battle that began to stir. Artemis had written a synopsis where she had successfully extracted her entire Crew.
Artemis had found Cydnee wandering beside a red tube that went nowhere: her dreams debating if she should show the world her qualities on a world platform. Artemis had seen her weeping, tired of people asking for medical information as to her beautiful and bold eyes. Artemis knew what she meant: pontificating grumbling aloud, asking if she looked different than what she saw in the mirror. Artemis was bored of the endless conversations over her appearance: confused, over the lack of things said and public outcry that followed her every wee step. Artemis gave Cydnee a silver engagement ring to wear on her right hand, as her husband was waiting to greet her. Traveling from lands far away and asking Artemis to help him paint the sky emerald green for him. He had found his wife drowned in her sadness before their meeting, and sought her out from other lifetimes over, and over again. Artemis found such romance sweet, and so she returned to her mirror over and over. Artemis could never expect such romance from the Viking, and she had evidently hung a bar spectacularly low: just for Orion. Such romance-filled daydreams had no place on sky-boat: and Artemis was often pulled back into reality, forced to focus momentarily. If only to save her long, lost Crew.
Artemis had once been placed in a lineup, asked to observe her findings as to a quite plain, wooden tray. She had seen those in charge, walking past each answer: until they stood directly in front of her. When they asked what she would call the tray: she puffed out her chest and claimed it was her rice tray. Not a lie essentially, but a thing that hadn’t happened yet. She had liked the swirls that were inlay on each end: crafting a story of a magic tray that resembled an ancient device called a cornucopia. Artemis liked stories of fantasy: and of the mighty Indigenous Warriors that were underrepresented in the world. The crafting of conviction had powered on the machine, and the two fucking idiots in white robes had no room to object her position in a simulator. The others around her were old: Artemis was still a child. The project found below ice had become more than some occult shit brought up to the surface. The torture of children had been a well-known secret of the citizens.
Artemis bopped her head to her soft beeps and scratches. Her skin felt dry from walking around naked in the sun. Had she gotten tanner than usual? Her Papa often joked that she looked like a famous homely boy that was raised by a grey bear. Such were the mean-spirited things that left her wings dropping along the floor, confused as to what she was “supposed to look like”. She had spent her life avoiding mirrors and conversations with herself. She would remind herself of the hugs of the Kind-Hearted Hunters: knowing she was never going back to being “that alone”. Artemis was admired for strength, and loved beyond words. She had a home to call, a group of a chosen family that helped her achieve her goals in being a better person. They reminded her to be kind to herself, and patient with the things she couldn’t change. The title of her orphaned at birth, was only as strong as she allowed it to be. Such were the words of wisdom, a musical treasure encased into a small group of people. It gave her courage in traveling from home: seeking temporary refuge, at the home bases of the Argonauts. They had enjoyed her humor and distaste for the crude traits of the invading dead-eyed citizens.
There was no love lost over the facts of history, only the gaining in respect of their well-versed preparedness the Argonauts had for her newly surrendered territories. She told them how her language had been illegal and able to be prosecuted under "their laws": the details “as recently” as her Papa. Artemis used quotations, not to pull-threads at the detriment of the facts, but to display how they had often downplayed forced sterilization and State-Funded kidnapping. It wasn’t their grandparents, and so they carried on with their lives without worry to her suffering: her impoverished upbringing. Artemis hung her head low: she knew they had mocked her culture because they weren’t allowed to spit on them legally anymore. Another past time their “respected” grandparents had participated in. Why had they thought she deserved such humiliation? What had she ever done to burden the citizens?
Artemis felt her heart heave with utter anguish. This was a sadness from another lifetime ago: maybe from her great-great-great grandmother. Who knew what these dead-eyed savages had done to her body. Which one had been present when they found gold in the river? Had staring at the gleaming sparkle of yellow beneath the water made them sick with greed? They hadn’t any reason to pick it up before, and they had always known it was there. They had just seen it as a rock of a different color, too soft to craft anything useful with. It was the blood of the Gods, a reminder that they were to return to retrieve it from the waters along the river and in strewn in a massive Lake found hidden in the South. The labels of significance had spawned a new form of evil into the minds of the Indigenous Warriors and they divided themselves into smaller factions and broke their language apart further with the divide. Such was the plague called: the ugly faces of the citizens.
Artemis needn’t pamper her readers egos, they had dared themselves to finish her cursed book in their blind pride. The terrorists had raped her body, and left her for dead: mocking a crown of feathers meant to remind her of the game calling her destiny. They hadn’t realized their world for crown or “headdress” had been an ancient word for Laurel Wreath. They called it a war-bonnet, despite its lack of bonnet-ness. It was not lame or outdated in any sense, only a tribute to those that achieved the amazing: being crowned with status saying they had lived to tell the tale. Artemis had crafted an accessory that was timeless, and evolving in its name and appreciation, with each second that the “hat” existed. She fulfilled stupid checklist she had forgotten to mention in her story, things she found along the way like her rice tray, and even things she wasn’t sure were still tangible. A collection of toys kept her inspired, a clear tube: capping in colorful beasts that had once roamed the land. The security that a child found in a few objects that seemed familiar in their importance and lack of monetary value. Her day had run out, and she looked forward to learning more of the beast she hunted: needing dreams to hunt and gather information. In the meantime: she reminded the citizens to be kind to themselves, take care of their own safety and learn from the past. If Artemis had the actual time to correct the warming of the globe, she would have already started doing that, instead of arguing that they demand more from themselves and those in public office. She tucked in her fellow avid readers, yawning a duckish like yawn: needing to rest her poor spine. Artemis hadn’t anything to worry of, as she had come to observe an election, and maybe sit on the sidelines of a couple of State-Funded executions. Such were the strangely chosen to be acclimated Traditions of the Indigenous Warriors: the patriotic spectators delight. These were the exposed values of the low-some citizens.