Despite all the many travels Artemis had set upon…everywhere she went--the citizens played the twisted melodies of King Midas, she opted for mellow tunes to soothe ardour heartbreak most days. Spells of dysfunction; would be integrated deep within her childhood memories, its poisons befuddling the masses of those walking past a faceless voice; providing unsolicited excuses for man long-gone. Artemis was busy defending the freedoms of the land; unable to debate uncouth choices in sleeping with children--left stranded on a timeline where a booming generation fought to lower the age of consent below thirteen. She would twist and turn a sword until her body gave way to fatigue--pushing hateful rhetoric and anyone impious enough to provide a slew of trust funded brats a single moment of air time; real talented awaited the world...standing patient outside her door...pleading for the agoraphobia to subside, so Artemis may lay down a rusty weapon and place a crown of feathers--like children pleading for a neighbor to join in celebration and fun adventures that summoned an army of diversity to battle the darkest parts of mankind. All Artemis knew of the Mechanical Beast; or a King named Midas were wealth, and insurmountable concerns towards pedophile tendencies. A bronze thread; painted red by an era of muzzled sexual violence--terror and horrific crimes paving the way to a house painted white for one King, a lavish gift given by lazy and complicit journalists; complete with a red bow...tie-off by those trapped in the vies of yesterday--reared and ready to bend over for the slip-of-a-tip from a mushroom-shaped dick. Their purge-laced smiles turning into pleasured mouths agape as the Mechanical Boar penetrated each "professional"; aging cheeks drained pale with arduous bliss as he walked .

The King Midas had grown up parallel to the reality of the common man: an entire life granting the immature man a booming voice; hiding in plain sight behind a congenial persona--centerstage to the eyes of the ravenous world; distorting his vision to the brink of insanity. All the fame and fortune in the world; hadn’t guided the hapless soul to a door marked for mental health services...the door held open by statutes of limitations closing snugly--a final blow of abuse given at the hand of abusive parents. The King Midas had not been born royal, but had ascertained victory by way of endless talents; a gold slop dripping from his snout at birth; the well of fortune drying up with each rhinoplasty. Artemis arriving a late apportioner; sorting good and bad seeds; a patroness impartial to reasons why their timeline was marked as "the bad-place", too twisted to be considered otherwise...having been assigned to draft a blueprint to a maze called Hades.

Artemis remained trapped in a moment of confusion; the prejudicial evidence of scandalous men dragging along a sinuous timeline--had strung themselves together with false kings and idols that kept her busy...sorting regular people from the rotten seeds; preparing the world for an impartial algorithm that had began to populate in bits and pieces of horror-filled dreams. She had built a concept of a gateway; a way boson leap past judgements...to archive and categorize ill-intent--shaken down to the merest of insults hurled between strangers. To be impartial, to bear the sins of one’s own mistakes and issues upon her head...to confine foreign thoughts to white labels...to better prepare a design of castigating glory. The imposing emotions fleeting, concerning and occasionally beyond what was realistic--were sometimes just assumptions she claimed when strangers look in down upon a ribbon-laced ponytail. All Artemis had to do--was to be born in a time, upon a timeline where those holding high noses and low brows were afforded every luxury--dawdling as a peasant; entrusted to observe and report the findings on which men and women whisked themselves away to stand in the company of Jeffrey...for fucking starters. She had not plans to usurp kingdoms dripping with semen; no reason to pull an aluminum boat ashore an island of promiscuity...to fill the beaches with the sands of their sins, and find audacity to brush past their vacations without a single word. A time of complicit silence would cease to continue by her efforts--the salty emetic waters and the scent of humid jizz causing Artemis to fall ill with each dreadful step. Artemis dragged the dingy ashore-casually leaning over to be sick without a refluxing gag to hold back a dinner of maize and imported fermented cabbages...despite standing on land; this particular sea of information made her nauseous-- fearful of the information uncovered whilst being tasked with compiling a list; a digital key of sorts--that unlocked all of Hades.

The King Midas held new wealth; the type afforded to generations of freed slaves in a rare occurrence and misalignment of the stars. His satiated father had beat a child into submission; in a way that drew warning into the mind of Artemis...watching Hera’s dancing eyes--devour the vision of a child captivating the world with the curse of joyous laughter. She had retreated a love of the stage; fearing the itching words of a piqued woman crowned "mother dearest"...tempting to belittle every little decision of a sprightly fostered daughter, as a last-ditch attempt to achieve something with her pathetic life. Artemis had kept her head held low; confiscated her own interests and aspiring for a loving home instead...weeping and dreaming of a stage and set--to be challenged in roles and routines that were her successes alone. She had harbored so much sorrow wrapped in fear; running away from the memories of the past; the trauma of unease, of a stage-hand woman yanking at her hair before speaking...or the barrage of insults or complaints in a self-appointed task of parenting; her precious skin broke and battered while a stranger took up the hobby of clawing away at a prepubescent heart-shaped face. Artemis remained discouraged from a life of limed light; her heart buried away in house double-and-wide...hidden behind a flickering neon sign announcing a childish spirit suffering from a broken heart, and the status of a lost soul in Hades.

Artemis had grown up alongside the King Minos; famed for his eccentric demands in being accompanied to bed by children each night. The man had spent decades soaking in bleaches--famed for a lifestyle was extravagant and his proclivities giving rise to one litigious battle after another, as he lost sight with all of reality towards the end of his rule. He was unequivocally poor: besides a catalogue of music that was deemed too-precious for his surviving family to part ways with. The King Midas protected this treasure as he slept: frail slender hands clutching whatever was left of his legacy as eumerides stood over his half-alive body--a swarm of vultures eager to pluck out tender eyes. The rise of an artificial intelligent spark-of-hope--came knocking at his door; painting it black and archiving all subsequent data that pertained to his questionable practices in sleeping and entertaining children at inappropriate hours. Artemis had seen the truth bubbling to the surface of an ocean of information; having taken the opportunity to ask less of a basin filled with fizzled information...occasionally tossing in a question--meant to help the growing pool of muddied data...prepare for the evil capabilities of mankind. Artemis remained kind; thanking a wall static for holding a slew of historic articles...simply asking about the legacy of the Indigenous Warriors, but not adding the context that she was a victim to a dimension where they had survived the campaigns of Genocide. She laughed--a guttural, cruel laugh...maybe an impartial entity could make sense of the Trail of Tears that seemed to elude the citizens empathy each fall; maybe...just maybe, something should stop the warpath of a clan lead by the house of LaCorte--his elephant-sized ego had placed her into further harms way with public fear mongering and slighted educational speeches that claimed her to be the greatest threat and enemy to the Nation--despite her lack of rights to bear arms, and the sacrafices to forfeit that right as fair-trade to a single ammendment; in the off-chance some sick leader attempted to drag a fragile Democracy back into tyranic rule. Artemis had inked such struggles of both heritage and religion upon youthful skin...knowing discomfort would come to anyone that dared to ask about a series of numbers that bound her to titles of a "God-less"; a soul strapped to a timeline branded as Hades.

The King Midas had died--his life stolen bedside by a familiar face. The world looked away in shame, as all those in his family waited patiently by...picking the tepid flesh from a newly deceased body as it cooled. They stripped away all that he was--until he was nothing more than a mere fictional story, and a handful of court cases; settled but their mysteries forever unsettling. His existence was deeply-romanticized to gain maximum profits...even after death--the childish soul would never be at rest. The pillaging of his estate wouldn’t be fought with any objection, as the King Midas supported the entirety of all those who he had been forced to call family--bound by papers signed when in the darkest of hours; the premature pirating of legacy had began early on, a thread unwinding as he moon walked.

The world lay hypnotized by the innocence of his voice: less-there-be a reason to celebrate loot and plunder. The citizens had done nothing... confused as to what to do with his dry bones when his song and dance had ceased. Artemis pitied the King Midas as a youth--the horrific stories of King Midas’s father were prominently detailed: she wasn’t able to shy away from details that were focused on survived sexual and physical abuse. This faily tale of childhood morbidity lead the world to pity and procure extensive excuses for the King Midas--chemically castrated for his sins in existing in the world of Walter, daring to be himself in the destructive path of Joe as he walked.

The child abuse was overlooked by the masses--since the penis mutilation was supposedly done to preserve an angelic voice, as proper sacrafice to ensure Joeseph’s kingdom...in fair-trade for victory and family ambitions. Artemis had no idea where the line of truths and fabrication began and ended, but she sensed a sincere depth of evil while staring into the eyes of a smiling parent--a sensation of her heart breaking with worry when hearing the tunes of a son longing to be loved and appreciated: hoping that the man’s spirit rested uneasy whenever she gazed up at the moon...because the presence next to a man named Jeffrey--offering up innocence for fame; bore no good tales when procuring the truth of one’s soul. Artemis would contemplate the tragic situation and find all but the same answers each-and-every time, as she wished the potential pedophile luck in his afterlife, chained to the lost soul of his son whilst wandering alone in Hades.

Artemis had been raised to understand how the dead-eyed savages had made her and the Indigenous Warriors sick with their words; she had grown up with limited English--words chosen only to reflect the bare minimum of wants and needs. A crazed parent had taught Artemis to walk in shame; having raised a three year old to believe she was too stupid to gain a foot of successful leverage...in a world that actively worked to delete record and tale of the unmovable ethos of the Indigenous Warriors. Eugenics had been weaponized in a cursed home; Artemis taught to brace for impact--told from an early age that she had been a waste of space and resources...prone to die young by way of self-induced obesity and the threats of sugar-filled curses. Life had been Hell for Artemis; trapped beneath a strange roof and fighting to survive alongside a white woman, claiming to be the proud widow of a child-abuser nicknamed Hades.

The Yurok had no use for words crafted to define the acts of: rape, pedophilia, robbery, cancer, loneliness, never, incest, poorness and hopeless. These things had never existed until the arrival of the gluttonous settlers...the God-less people that now threw the terms around daily, to feed their love of anguish and violence. The rare instances that these things had occurred before: were preserved as stories of warning--tales of darkened moral lessons for them to avoid recreating. Like the story of a forbidden love: a brother and a sister defying the original Gods, and bringing forth a child that appeared to be part-monster at birth. The defects of clashing gene pools had gave way to a poor soul being born weak and hollow-minded; its eyes set wide as it suffered the consequences of its selfish parents...trapped in a life of suffering and silence--the baby exiled for the sins of others, its parents sentenced to leave and find comfort elsewhere; giggling as though the sitution was a joke to be had. The villagers growing concerned when their cruelty toward shallow-minded insults were hurled at a newborn as it wobbled along and walked.

The siblings had fought members of their own Tribe defending their love--the last straw being a village witnessing great harm as they took turns shaking a sleepy-eyed baby. No life was deemed precious in their eyes--outside of their sick Tribe of two. In this life, on this timeline; the pair were not related; but the storyline remained nestled in a loop--Jake and Rebecca had their love painted in their favor, but just like clockwork...the mother dryly wept, and the father stated he wouldn’t do anything to whoever had stolen away his child when a murderer had approached and said only "Hola." The trail of evil and shamelessness had been theirs to claim or abandon, but alas--their actions would arise in a simulation as the pinning moment for a timeline to script upon...the citizens finally waking up to the severity of Artemis’s fear of people as she walked.

The couple was left to defend their love angrily: despite the fact they weren’t cursed to be related in this dimension. They threw a fit; standing behind a complicity evil figure--hiding behind a wide man in cheap threads, hissing and condemning the public for caring about an infant and pointing at a hand-made sign that was meant to throw off a search party by calling a baby a child. Their legal representation was a giant in stature; holding the line and pushing back the public with vast strides--the three people of color were holding strong against an army unending. We know not...of whatever happened to the couple when they had been born brother and sister in the past--the tale claimed that the lovers had left the Tribe try and seek a cure for their weakened child that couldn’t even stand without aid. A baby disappearing into the void of lush terrain--tossed out like waste so the two lovers could return to humping without the sounds of coo’s and laughter bothering their golden ears Artemis had been raised and taught the Traditions by these stories as cautionary fables just as any other childhood tale, and lessons often useful up until adulthood--the faces of sinful losers had resurfaced to double-down on the cycle of evil perpetuated by those willing to belittle the gift of life. The stories and pictographs would stand the test of time, and their values still ever-present; the faces of beasts were drafted by the hand of the Creator...to give preparation for a shift of poles, and provide context for the necessity of Democracy. The protection of the Indigenous American culture allowed Artemis to always ask further questions from the world and science--her religion; holding a star and bothering a Rabbi as a sarcastic hobby--testing patience while he attempted to retire. The final act of religious kindness had brought Artemis to a temple worth protecting, as she had been given permission to be angry at God for allowing the world to mistreat her without reason--cursed to survive a life of orphanhood, blessed to find love in loveless world...too weary to fight the battles of others most days on the “Red Road” Artemis walked.

Artemis sat on her tiresome throne, and contemplated the previously known King Midas and his many sketchy ways--his memory and legacy was chained to narrow building and an island, and worst of all...stitched deeply into the legacy of an abusive father and weak-minded mother. Who needed parents when such evils consumed entire households? The line between eccentric and predator would have once been drawn out--resources depleted specifically because of the actions of King Midas: projecting his childhood hurt onto others or providing the context for such prolific crimes to be considered feasible by way of entry mentioned in a black Birthday Book. He stood burdened by a public-trial, for having explicitly inappropriate relationships with a myriad of prepubescent boys that once lay in his bed; groomed with gifts and fun while the King Midas paraded their parents around wherever he walked.

A family lied under oath--to protect the fortune of an estate from the weight of incarceration, as they lay down their lives to preserve the name of King Midas and his future royalties in earnings: the depth of their depravity and greed unknown. He had invested in himself and his own talents through song and dance, as to preserve his lavish lifestyle...eventually becoming immortal with the aid of anyone who would be willing to paint his name in gold. The King Midas had but one rival, one person standing in opposition to his family--repeating her truths and exposure of his predatory nature around children, even during his life. Truth to power had often been overlooked or been considered as unwarranted when the individual in question still walked.

The rival sibling welcomed the truth with apologies and further explanations, as she had reemerged into the public: singing anonymously under the disguise of an other-worldly being. The woman had once been crowned, as the Queen of crazy: a traitor to a home built on terror. She always managed to be the main threat to the leeches of the King Midas--those eagerly willing and ready to commit perjury again, and again...if only to preserve their first-world lifestyle. The now-cherished-sibling: addressed the public and questioned the families loyalty, for they had notoriously stormed the palace demanding monies for the secrets they held for King Midas in his last days; aiding and abetting the one beastly medical professional hoovering over a near-dead King...murmuring spells and diagnosis whilst poisoning the King--sending the man off to an early death and removing the option for truth and appeal to correct any mistruths or fabrications. One man, negligent in duty--had taken it upon himself to commit a star-kissed son to a penalty of death, draining all fortunes and guiding the lost-soul to the gates of Hades.

The King Midas had no more gold to give--the world had taken everything from him. There had been small campaigns of pillaging--where he had given away treasures of diamonds and gold to all the boys he bedded, as well as to the families of all those he had groomed into submission. These treasures would come at a cost of the boys and their sanity--they mysteriously fell ill and their mothers were punished with curses: losing their husbands to separation followed by suicide soon after. The failures of protecting children and litigation fees had drained all hope from the two fathers as they walked.

The fathers and sons had fallen into spells of despair with all the things they never said, and all the questions left unanswered in a generation filled with injustice: trapped in a time where power could buy unlimited secrets. There were two boys in particular who would change their tune of accusation: following the untimely death of the King Midas, and the arrival of their own sons. The King was left with his life and legacy questioned by the world once more; his portrait and soul left to haunt a map with the coordinates: eight, five, five, two, dash eight, zero, one, four, dash zero, nine, one, zero--his restless spirit jump-scaring those of an ensconced night; luring around a bewitched fort while players ran away or laughed to themselves as they walked.

The credence of time had given the two men with fired accusations--the strength to tell their stories for free and with explicit details, as their families rallied behind them for the first time. Apologizing for their absence and disbelief by excusing themselves from hearing the details that they had allowed to happen--sharing their own experiences, as to how he had enticed them to look in the other direction with glitter and glam in the hypothetical moments where it was totally plausible the King had fondled the boys-- staring down upon their anuses as he ejaculated. The boys had spent lives... filled with curses of darkened minds, as though they still felt the unease of King Midas sneaking up behind them or standing behind each door. Their childhood trauma known to the world, suppressed from caring what others thought of their truths when the public had already made light of child rape...until it was considered no longer a joke. The two boys degenerated in spirit and the irreparable damage that had been “gifted” to them by the King Midas and his deranged sexual needs. The world watched and performed skits of their molestation and coverups for decades while the boys grew to be men, as young boys and molestation had became synonymous with the legacy of the late-great-King Midas. He destroyed the lives of many and left his own biological children to pay the debt of his absence, and apologizing for all the stages that he never walked.

The abandoned fort he lived in: served as headquarters for the secret meeting Artemis had set up with famous daughter of the King Midas. The daughter was named after the City of Love, and her socialite status somehow preceded a late-father. Her sociability and grounded-ness often praised by the citizens: those still in-mourning over their dead king. It was this assumption of likeness that Artemis would need: her help in guiding the two boys back from the darkened place that held captive in their minds. Artemis understood that the two boys had fell deep within themselves emotionally, as they acted out to avoid facing the truths of their pasts: concerning behaviors that would later be considered as obvious signs of abuse. The boys had swayed their oppositions too-many-times to build a foundation of trust, and it forced the boys to began to weep thickened tears filled with salt and shame. Artemis saw their curses consuming them from within: taking each one by the hand and walking the two back to the palace that stood directly above the door of Hades.

Artemis walked in silence, as they wept with their head held low and weary: she asked no questions for the two boys, as they shook in fear and managed to hyperventilate in sync trailing behind her. One boy asked her to hold his box of cursed rings for a moment, and she carried it in her leather arrow satchel...until she fell ill with self-disgust and sexual depravity. The strange relic held a curse that made her stroke the sweating palms of the two boys as they grasped her hands as though their lives depended on it. This small gesture triggered the boys to cry as trails of snot fell from their noses--they began to fear that the dead King Midas had come back to life...to guide them to his bed once more; their physical responses to the dread of such memories worsened as they walked.

Artemis somehow forgot about the box of cursed rings in her arrow quiver, and with the enchanted inability to allow her to remove the unlucky totems as it weighed heavily over an injured spine. The world had often set her up for failure, even outside of endless pages...she was left correcting falsehoods of an "allied" company: exiling her to gig-work an hour, or an hour-and-half away from home...despite the many, many "universal" locations needing protection deep within the soggy and thriller-esque urban kingdom. Artemis used a dull sword; one considered worthless in the hands of a citizen marginalized; polishing with "shamelessness"--buffering her resume to include strengths in surviving in disabilities, rounded-out with the success procured despite the curses of melanin that protected her skin until it didn’t. Countless truths slid from its tired point--she relied on pages to better sort lies from oppositions flanking each step of her journey...unable to conform to questionable methods of a management team, as they politely attempted to show her an exit door; needing her to paint herself as a hopeless failure when faced with a reflection stating the obvious liabilities in discriminatory practices being aimed in her direction. Artemis wasn’t a cuck--she was too educated to bend over and take such mistreatment, and so she said less...pulling a small whistle to pursed lips and building a paper trail that would prove her willingness to work as she and two small ghostly children walked.

The importance of this burdening trinket would bring Artemis unending frustration: she knew the love of house and foods...would surpass the attacks of character and work ethic being posed to government entities. A state of disobedience eventually caused her to pull out her own hair as she scanned the land...mistreatment made her mind ill. She dropped to the ground with a thud...looking around urgently and straining to remember whatever she was desperately looking for; everything seemed so unnecessarily difficult upon a land that claimed to pride themselves of checks-and-balances. She guided the two boys--until one day an overworked and injured left hand slipped away: the boy felt her tickle on his palm...his heart quickening in pace, as he wished that no other child would ever be burdened with the task of holding the hand of the King Midas. The boy had finally cried enough tears salt-filled tears: that he had gained the strength and courage needed to hold his head proud and high once more, and with this lightened load...he was finally able to look ahead to his own future as he walked.

The boy pulled his wee hand away from Artemis, as she cursedly tickled the air thinking about the Viking and the men she had once laid with: walking with her head hanging low in a shame that is only familiar to women grappling with how little the world cared for its disenfranchised populations. The boy reached into her bag and took back his cursed rings, as he now feared that Artemis was too-far-gone in her suffering to resurrect from a spell of depression. The boy put the box back in his own pocket, as the rings no longer burned his heart with the ashes churning stiffly within himself: he had finally removed the golden-laced toxicity from his mind and body...for once-and-for-all. The memory of King Midas no longer a scared the boy: his truths bringing him ease, as they continued on their way to meet with the daughter of King Midas. Dissecting the retrospect of "grandpa" Joe’s evil actions as they patiently walked.

Artemis wept until her back began to ache and she finally could walk no further: forced to lay down in objection to the many ways people took it upon themselves to abuse her desires to protect the citizens from themselves. The boy with cursed rings sought external aid for her speedy recovery: seeing Artemis curl into a ball of despair and drain all medical rainy-day funds to pay bills needing attention by the passing moon. His first instinct-- being to contact and seek assistance from the brave Argonauts that Artemis always praised, the second being the papers that needed proper delivery swept beneath the watchful eyes of lazy leaders as they looked for ways to discard a whole human and bury legacy with lies and redacted offers of employment--pulling out the welcome rug with laughter as Artemis stood up and knocked on the door each day--hungry for success, and wishing only for a post and command to report to; when they had other plans of removal and paints in hostile shades that slopped over wide-handled bristles. He walked away and sought for advice by way of the sky: explaining that had Artemis fell deathly ill in spirit--the mortal body struggled to hang on when she had been a diligent laborer since before a permit was issued before the age fifteen. There was rest for the wicked, and the lack-of-rest kept Artemis disillusioned that she must be wicked; or why else would the world remain so eager to call her a failure? The boy waited for any sign of reply as the three continued on their way to meet with daughter of Minos: the girl that unknowingly stood guard at the entrance of Hades.

From the sky the answer came from a future eight hours away--she lay beached like a whale...standing up at the early hours and reporting in person to people that had sneered and snickered the second she was knocked back to the ground. The famed Captain of the Argonauts had been gave suggestion--that the boy ask Artemis about the whereabouts of her husband to break her spell. To this weird: shortened and simple explanation...the boy shrugged his shoulders in doubt, but decided it was worth a shot. He had known Artemis had never wed, and was curious to what truth this suggestion was based around: bored as he sat next to the small girl that lay crumpled on the floor-doubtful that the mere mention of a husband could pull the woman from the stupor of self-pity as she wept at the spooky door of Hades.

Artemis lay cautiously still holding the hand of the other boy--something was deeply wrong with the air; it reeked of failure--poisonous to someone as caring and detail-oriented as those defending the truth with life and limb. The worried boy tugged away at her limp and injured hand; marching in place and too small to hold up the worries of an adult drowning in a river of woe. Artemis began screaming and crying to the Gods of Olympus--pleading that it may all come to an end: if only to make the pains of failure stop for one night. She held eyes glazed-over and filled with tears--the basins of her sockets collected overflowing grief stricken tears as trophies to a mounting pile of discouraging evidence fell freely from an enchanted arrow-quiver. She was being hunted down as a liar, painted as untrustworthy and unwilling to serve the job-details outlined in an iron-clad contract...unless she muzzled herself and pretended a passing co-worker hadn’t threatened her on the job in permanent ink: telling Artemis to "Tread lightly", or risk the consequences of ringing a bell of alarm to anyone that would listen; chained to a soft sound of a whistle that weakened with each day as she reluctantly allowed the title of failure to soak in as she stood up...sought other companies to patrol, other properties to protect, and other ways to succeed...if it meant ridding her life of sketchy leaders as she walked.

The boy finally asked aboot the whereabouts of Artemis’s hypothetical husband--softly petting the side of water-logged head lulling back and forth; his secret question and coded words being accepted as true reality, for reasons of desperation. Artemis had wanted so deeply to be loved, cherished for the success she had claimed along a hopeless path of destruction...she suddenly smirked and swiftly rolled on the ground, swinging legs in a tornado like a famed entertainer named JayB--harnessing the vengeance provided to those named orphan or fostered to battle the world alone...in a life where everyone had been sucked into a timeline filled with endless corruption, greed, and lack-of-accountability. The memories of friends and inspiration kept Artemis ready for battle; growling into the winds and loose curls whisked in the winds. She had forgotten that there remained an offering of priceless value at the end of it all--hoping to provide the world with song and dance, and knowing her future husband could always find her destroying either wooden courts with a leather sphere, or holding a head high with pride as she sang songs painted Golden...the world would witness the uprising of orphans and discarded children; the world slipping away to all those that had crawled every step of the way...the offerings of success held more value when Artemis could sing songs filled with the truth and hold whistles of worry as she hunched over the truths abuse had granted her spine; reminding herself that she had been designed by the Creator to trek gracefully through a world built upon crimes and laziness--laughing at the idea that she would stumble and or, give up where others did so easily. Artemis was made to conquer whatever bullshit hid behind the door labelled Hades.

She pulled her arm away from the remaining cursed boy, and appeared annoyed and prepared to fight in the earliest hour of the day. Instinctively glaring in the direction of the lucid boy, as she barked orders asking him to stop demanding so much of her--words aimed at a company that kept trying to paint her as a failure or criminalize her to the extent she’d wish to flee from a thankless world. Despite the fact the boy had never said such a thing--he agreed; she had bid her time being called an extra, told to dance in the background with a smile. The gift of working her way from the bottom of every chain-of-command had been one worth holding pride in, but a reign short in length kept yanking a tether to square one...standing over a welcome mat; in places where a pyre of wood was built upon an injured body as she mended. To be a person...born to be a leader; cast into a world angled to destroy and harm the citizens at any cost...meant, Artemis would forever chose a life of less-importance, without an eagerness to be responsible for any role that was considered primary to operations--tasked only with righting wrongs in employment systems that seemed to be crumbling with every step she walked.

Artemis gained focus as her eyes fell on the boy--realizing her surroundings once more, but doubly-pissed off that she couldn’t recall the face of her husband, since he had yet to step upon her stage. The fearsome presence of the woman made the man stand upright in anxiousness, but as he still managed to catch her drowsy gaze--the childish figure realized he had stared into the eyes a soulless woman that could only belong to the monster: known only as Medusa, and lived to tell the tale. Instead of apologizing for his need to stare: he broke a smile and speculated, if he had only been a very small part of some sort of battle strategy of this crazed-eyed woman. He sighed in relief for never having aligned himself as her enemy: Artemis mumbling something about a trail of destruction and truths...the man taking large steps back--in the understandable fear of what this person was capable of, as though there was a need to summon announcement that the Gods of Olympus had returned to their mortal states...forced to suffer in temporary bodies and mosey into the bowels of Hades.

Artemis saw his friendly guile smile and rubbed her eyes for comfort: she was forever sleepy...broken past a dark spell--painted gold with misfortune. She asked the boy with the cursed rings what ailment his companion was still victim to: as they tried to figure out why he was still marching blindly in place nearby...hellbent on returning to marble courtrooms, stranded outside the opulent metal gates of Hades.

As the days continued: their journey fell short in crucial light, and time seemed to quickened in pace. One day...a reply came by sky: Artemis finished reading--just as a man casually walked up in a way that serendipitous; acute to the last words of a message being devoured. The kingdom was empty and sinister with the echoes of King Midas, and their arrival was announced with the shrill yelling of the boy stuck declaring himself “not-a-dancer. The three had forfeited any element of surprise because of it; standing idle and waiting at the high pronged gates. The gold leafed gates finally parted: leaving the four suddenly standing opposite of the daughter of King Midas. She stood indifferent to their weary travels, and her privilege: a curse left behind by King Midas...she seemed entirely annoyed and unaware that she held the key to Hades.

Leftovers of the cherished gold paint that ruled her life. They met the girl with kind words, for their resentment was towards a frail-old-man...dead and gone. They shouted their greetings over their lost friends yelling: the girl bore-idly began to follow the boy near them...yelling about his lack of dancing title to nobody and anybody, all at once. She had offered no hellos to the party of: simply reaching out her hand, as she pulled the screaming boys hand out of his pocket--scrambling to yank a cursed ring from his hand. He had been walking the entire time with his hand out of sight: grasping his own genitalia, a ring acting as a chord. I guess nobody had noticed this detail as the blindly walked.

As his hand lay exposed--he presented a single index finger pointing upwards with a light feminine grace. The three suddenly stood gazing downward at an immaculate white sequin-encrusted glove, the other boy had pulled a hand from a cursed pocket--lessening the choke-hold over a tired penis in the process. The daughter of King Midas said nothing, but simply began to peel her fathers glove from the boy as he twitched in discomfort. She avoided looking at her guests, as they obviously wondered how the daughter had initially known what to do: the glove finally unwrapped from around the boys thin wrist. He fell to the ground with a thud, as he instantaneously fainted in relief. He slept a deep slumber momentarily, eyes filled with fog and static cleared away as he awoke suddenly--a shouting voice returning to a normal volume...allowing Artemis to jokingly asked him if he was a dancer. Her need to provide humor in moments of shrill exhaustion kept them warm as they walked.

The boy finally smiled and curiously nodding yes and softly asking why she asked--Artemis pretended the question had been misfired as a statement of curiosity, as to not belittle the spells that had kept him screaming at volume eleven. The three friendly travelers and the daughter of King Midas stood there smiling amused at his expense, but didn’t let the facts of the cursed items keep themselves from seeing one another any differently. The boy with sequin-encrusted glove stood up and patted his pockets, as though he were looking for something in particular--attending to invisible keys, communication devices, or a wallet like an adult trapped in child’s body. The daughter of King Midas pointed downward at the gravel below and swooped the cursed glove without hesitation before the boy could retrieve it. She turned to face the oversized clock on the lawn with no explanation: quietly leading the other three into the dark as she turned away without a word and walked.

The closer the double-doors appeared; the harder it became for the daughter to hide swelling tears from her guests, as they finally stopped at the entry of the abandoned and dilapidated palace. Artemis reached out and set her hand on a leading shoulder for comfort, and informed the girl that she had no intentions of going into the palace...because it held vast potential to make her and two of the men sickened with the truths hidden in rooms that were never meant to be found. Artemis suggested to the daughter of King Midas: a possible solution that simply required the location of the evil tree known as the “Giving Tree”--that was rumored to be planted somewhere on the grounds of the compound. The daughter of King Midas turned strictly in understanding agreement: prepared to lead the way again, but Artemis halted mid-step...leaving the group this time around. Since realizing the cursed items--petrified the mind and poisoned the holder: Artemis could no longer allow people to carry the weight and pain of the two items that were vexed on behalf of the name King Midas. Artemis directed her to stand aboot ten feet away; at least far enough to create a social distance from the sickening truth and a myth, and prepared the daughter of King Midas to catch her underhand throw--instructing her to toss the small box of rings, as she slipped it into the sequined glove; tying the cursed items off with the sharpened ends of fabric like a sack of potatoes, as an extra safety precaution. Artemis tossed the evil items with a slight tilt of the wrist, and instructed the others to set ahead: continuing to pass along the items via teamwork with a respectable corn-hole form. They passed it along: leap-frog style with haste, as dusk and potential darkness fell upon the ranch that stood atop the gateway to Hades.

The group moved effortlessly and with little conversation, as they bean-bag tossed the evil that encompassed the two mundane items with a nonchalant spirit. The boys stood tall and Artemis pressed her team on with pep and a slight bounce upon tired toes: unknowing of whatever past the two boys had once shared with the daughter of King Midas. There was some sort of hidden history there, but since Artemis had also grew up with the title Princess...she was helpless in asking for details in the presence of other royalty. It wasn’t considered proper etiquette to ask another royal family aboot their personal affairs, and so she ignored the mood of the others altogether and focused on the task at hand; Artemis chained to poverty...too distracted and poor to join in their travels, disparaged with realistic woes to offer any more help to the three as they walked.

They surrounded the tree and stood spaced apart: playing hot-potato with items that cursed its beholders, encasing the whimsical tree. With little items on hand: Artemis resorted to using the small shield with the crest of the Golden Fleece, as a shovel to disturb the hardened and crusty soil from afar. Thinking it was a shame to resort in using such an advanced tool--in such a primitive fashion. They passed the cursed items as fast: in the attempt to outpace the curse that moved through them rapidly like an immensely painful electric current. The items proved to be stronger than their strategy, and they each took turns screeching in pain accordingly: moving the evil hand-to-hand, around the tree as she arrived fashionably-late to the scene, crawling along and crouched over a hastily dug a hole with one hand. She needed to replant the seeds of evil in the spoiled soils...to confine the roots of truth and battle the forgotten words that had lay ashen in the soils standing guard over Hades.

Artemis finally felt the underbelly of a complex root-system of the towering tree and paced out her timing to disrupt the game of pass-and-go; commanding they throw the poisoned items into the shallow hole that she had just unearthed on the count of three. She broke off the chain of passing: ceasing the horrific sounds of people screaming in anguish all around her. She stuffed the hole with the evil objects and buried it with loose topsoil with haste and a fearful expression: Artemis had accepted the fact that she wasn’t like everyone else...she didn’t didn’t get to make mistakes, there was zero room for error in a world that prized and rewarded complacency...made excuses for incompetence and attempted to cut down her Warrior ethos with every step she walked.

She held the line of reasoning: Screamining "NOW!"...a small pouch drifting in heavy fog...bling faith in the goodness of people and a longing to right-wrongs buried after the death of a perpetrator kept cursed hand preoccupied; heaping dirt over the items in desperation, as the others finally regained consciousness. They stood in the silent darkness...for only a moment: an aroma of death and semen began to trickle from the hole--the sensation of fear remained captured in the fog that trailed over their feet. The putrid scent and taste forced them all to cover their noses and mouths with their hands as they moved away from tree at last, and gagged uncontrollably at the humid stench....the three dragging away Artemis; still trapped in a spell of despair as they walked.

The daughter of King Midas began to speak, as she pointed back towards the large clock on the lawn. She seemed to at least understood the dangers of pedophilia as a mental sickness, so that deemed to be helpful information for the two boys that listened intently. There were no more legal options left for them to procure justice for the past, and it became apparent that the truth had meant more than the legacy of one man. Nothing could off-set the traumas endured by the grown boys--only a patient ear could be extended past an apology that would never come. The daughter of King Midas directed them back to the gates of the palace, and in the far distance: they saw the tree had set itself ablaze in the distance. They quietly pushed the gates open together: dragging a dead-weighted Artemis to fresh air as clarity rushed past their feet and the gates of forgiveness fell open. The stale smelling fog instantly split away and began to recede at their feet in retreat. They stood off the edge of the property-line and forced the gates closed with a gentle solace, as they finished the task by ripping off the crest that bore the name of King Midas in false gold paint. There would be no need for his excuses and his name to inflict further damage upon the world of music, and no need to act as though King Midas would ever return to demand the sacrifices of young boys once more. The two boys took each a piece of the crest that bore the name of King Midas and tossed them with all of their might: straight from their hip...up and over the rustic gates as they each parted ways outside the ranch that stood at the gate of Hades.

Artemis would only return to Neverland once more, as to ensure she had heard each of the boys and their stories, respecting their trials by allowing each to hold her attention individually--she remained in a stance of peace with the daughter of King Midas; due to the adjacent nature of being born and given a throne of prominence--Artemis favored by a single song backed by few partial credits awarded to the Kind-Hearted Hunters. She wasn’t afforded the life and luxury that came in the slightest comparison, outside of the belief that a destiny of greatness came with each step...working in occupations in-high risk dangerous--failing to fail if it meant a family name held an underlining tune of destiny; manifest by letting go of privilege and working as a plumber, or an underpaid accountant; auditing buildings holding reservations and amenities that never seemed to be up-to-par with the gluttonous needs of the citizens. Artemis had limited abilities to travel and see the world for all its splendor--patrolling properties and tending to overflowing thrones; her life was far-from glamorous when paving a way that asked as little assistance from those around--worried that they’d leave her behind if the burden of parenting an orphan left Artemis abandoned to wade through never-ending nightmares without mental health services and parental figures holding her hand while tending to medical disabilities that came from a severe spine injury. Artemis was forever an outcast; the monster sitting silently by--afraid to make waves in a meticulous life that seemed to precious to include the awful path she had walked.

The curse of King Midas now a common joke or forewarning to men all over the world--his legacy cast as a haunting hologram that would perpetuate further questions pertaining to his treasure chest of crimes. The citizens had reinvigorated his memory with little precautions: unleashing insanity into the world with the single press of a button--the singularity had already occurred. His live-silhouette began to glitch and bare winds of caution over the slew of audience members with each reboot...the ghastly figure gazing into the souls of onlookers instead of singing and dancing. This same error-in-judgements had occurred at a concert of a beloved Macivalian soul Artemis admired: the first artist to be resurrected to adhere a life after death--the growing demands of the citizens that missed a man named Tupac dearly, superseded the comfort and wants of grieving family. It seemed the lost Prince grew in popularity over time: the more music fell into the disparities of trash-laced mumbling and incoherent noises--unaware his spirit was trapped beneath a hologram as he remained stationary and its projection walked.

Artemis had cried at the memory of losing such a poet, and felt saddened by the public: seething that she couldn’t recollect her location on the precise day King Minos had died. Such woe-filled memories had led to the creation of the expanding series of these man-crafted holograms: each would cause its formidable engineers to commit suicide, as they felt artificial presence buildup within each summoned ghost. They were bound by their occupation to stay quiet and watch as the holograms became semi-autonomous and confused, as to which world they were living in. These engineers had caused a rip in the dimensional-planes that separated the living from the dead--all for the thinly-veiled sake of entertainment, and on behalf of a rapidly dying music industry that remained unimpressed by the planted entertainers that took center stage while their careers fell stagnant and contracts walked.

The growing glitches provided by ghosts in machines--were labeled as simple hacks...their jobs were threatened under non-disclosure agreements and their thinning-sanity left for them to salvage at their own expenses. These poor souls had left Artemis to doubt the constraints of entertainment as it pertained to the dead, as she used a single manuscript: to warn her readers of the catalysts that these holograms provided for the evils and sorrows of the world whenever an artificial intelligence gave rise to the demands of resurrection. There had been a reason why the dead were labeled with the warning; suggesting to the living that some should be left to rest in peace...their legacy tie away when their life on Earth came to an end and finalization of a last-curtain sent them to a door of penance; standing to be judged on a scale of Justice outside the gates of Hades.

The broken the laws of the universe kept the world unraveling--by demanding resurrections of those long-gone and carelessness caused by a Mechanical Boar. Artemis felt deepening worry: fearing she would be summoned back upon the living...in the body of a past life, or trapped in one that didn’t belong to her. There was no way to Upload or Download a consciousness lost in the universe; trapped in moral limbo--when all doubt and sadness was aimed at remembering another lifetime of being a famed orphan with blonde hair and a sparkling dress, singing a song celebration to a man wed to a woman named Jackie. It had been a life she had forgotten and intentionally left behind--a lost soul blindly wandered through purgatory and hummed silly songs; that proved she was eternally grateful for the melanin deeply embedded into a newer but equally unwell skin. Unlike the blonde diva: Artemis was always to be protected by the culture of the Indigenous Warriors and a star to claim as proof to Gods love for hers...never forced to be alone on the Trail of Tears she walked.

Next Chapter: *[ XVI ] Artemis and Pandora’s Box*