Five years later… in Hell.
Two weeks later on earth.
“Chuck Shirly, Kevin Tran, Donatello, Luigi Ponzi, Justin Hunt, Aaron Webber, Maria, Dennis Adams, Krista, and Sven.” Artemis read aloud for the tenth time, vainly hoping that, this time, it would make sense. He sat back at his desk, giving in.
Meg peeked her head around the door, “Y’know, saying it a thousand times won’t miraculously reveal the meaning.”
Artemis glared, “I had just come to that conclusion myself, actually. There’s no discernible link between these names. All of them are common enough that it would be impossible to tell who these people are.”
Meg nodded along, not really listening. Meg was at a loss as to why Artemis tried so hard in his work, perhaps it was pride but, in all probability, it was the raging case of Stockholm syndrome the boy harboured. She had been familiar of the concept of Stockholm syndrome for centuries, but she (and all the other demons) had never felt the need to put a name to the condition. She didn’t understand the human impulse to give everything a label, didn’t they find it exhausting?
Anyway, Artemis had been less weepy lately, which Meg was quite glad of because she didn’t know if she could deal with much more whining.
It was one of the good things about Hell, as the soul was cracked and ripped by the torture, the gaps were filled with the essence of Hell, the sulphurous smoke that swirled around the atmosphere. It numbed the pain and dampened empathy, increasing violent tendencies.
Interrupting Artemis’ rambling Meg cut in, “Hey can you take my shift?” She handed him a clipboard, “I’ve only got a few more poor shmucks to review.”
Artemis looked up at her, still outraged about the last time she had asked, “Why? It better not be another Cleo situation.” He shuddered, he still had nightmares about it.
The infamous Cleo incident to which he referred to, was of course, the time Meg had asked him to cover her shift so that she could…well. It was better left unsaid, but Cleo Patra, Stalin, and Marylin Monroe had been present, as had a goat, a litre of olive oil and a bag of hair. Artemis had told her, after finding out, that she could schedule her personal activities during her free time. Especially the weird ones.
Ugh.
Meg crossed her arms, “I swear, it’s not! There’s a social for the new demons on floor seven, could be fun.”
Artemis’ sigh was resigned, “You’ve been a demon for millennia.”
“And I want to mess with the fresh meat. Sue me.” Meg grinned.
Artemis deflated, “Fine but I've got some work to do for Ali.” And took her clipboard.
Meg bounced on her toes, “Thank you! I won’t forget this.” She hugged him.
Artemis tried not to smile, “Go on, you’ve got younger interns to terrify.”
Meg practically skipped away, grinning, this would be fun.
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Artemis sat where Meg had left him. He had run the list through his computers to find anagrams and secret messages but all of them had been weak and nonsensical.
He left the slip of paper on the desk, it wasn’t urgent, or even something he was expected to solve but it needled at him. It had been an intercepted communication from a few weeks ago. Alastair hadn’t told him who the message was from, only that communication was rare and that intercepts were far more sparse.
He didn’t like failing Alastair, it made him feel worthless. The only good thing about him was that he was useful, he wasn’t nice or funny or even attractive. He was a terrible person but he could be useful, people would keep him around if he was useful.
He looked down at the clipboard and read the first name. Maria Gonzalez, crimes: accidental infanticide, theft and… defenestration. Well, that was new.
He sat at the computer and with a few keystrokes found a dictionary entry for defenestration and found that it meant the act of throwing something or someone out of a window. He snorted, his eyes flicking onyx black for a moment. He wondered if the ‘accidental infanticide (Killing your children)’ was in any way related to the defenestration. He hoped not.
He and Meg worked in the department that assessed the files of the damned and created tailored torture plans for each soul. This one would be simple, even the grunts could figure this out. He circled the ‘accidental infanticide’ and wrote a quick ‘guilt and simulations of dead children * psychological torture *’.
If that wasn’t clear, he didn’t know what was. Although the torturers did not seem to think so, claiming that his notes were ‘indecipherable and vague’. It was odd, he should feel guilty for condemning a woman to be tortured by the death of her child. He didn’t, he just felt bored. That happened more and more now, a blanket of numbness protecting him. And there was his eyes. Every so often he would catch his reflection in a surface to see obsidian black eyes staring back.
A knock sounded at the door, it was Dean, “Hey Art.”
Artemis was faced away from the door and didn’t look up from his work, “I never said you could call me that.”
“And yet.”
“Smiling roguishly will get you nowhere.” Artemis said, eyes still locked on the clipboard, trying to keep a straight face.
“I didn’t- wasn’t- doing that.” Dean floundered, said roguish smile falling from his face.
Artemis turned in his swivel chair and raised an eyebrow trying to ignore how cute Dean could be sometimes.
Dean came to sit next to him, “What are you doing anyway?”
“Covering for Meg then my own stuff.”
Dean sighed, “You gotta tell her no once in a while. You’re too nice.”
Artemis’ lip quirked upwards, “An ironic plot twist indeed.”
Dean looked over his shoulder at the work, “I would offer to help but I think this is the most boring job in the entire joint. Also, I think that you guys don’t actually do much. I mean you circle a few things, but you don’t do any of the work.”
“Better than being a brainless knife jockey.” Artemis shot back.
Dean frowned, “Is that what you guys call us?”
“Yes.”
Tilting his head, Dean conceded, “I mean, It is accurate.”
Artemis opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again before saying, “Not all of the time.” Feeling a bit guilty.
Dean grinned, “I knew you liked me really.” His exuberant confidence returning.
“Oh, get over yourself.” Artemis rolled his eyes.
Dean leaned in, “If you weren’t here, what would you be doing?”
Artemis considered it, “Researching the behaviour of subatomic particles probably.”
Dean grinned, “You were a nerd?”
Artemis rolled his eyes, “And you were an idiot?”
Dean laughed, “I’m kidding, that sounds pretty awesome.” He shrugged, “Or it would if understood half of what you said.”
Artemis glanced up, “What did you do?”
“Travelled across America, killed monsters.” Dean said.
Horrified, Artemis asked, “You killed people?”
“Not people. Monsters, like vampires.” Dean defended.
“My best friend is a vampire.” Artemis said. “He isn’t a monster.”
Dean looked down at his lap, “I only ever found a nest because they were killing the locals. The ones I found were killers. It was just... what my Dad taught me to do.” He said, almost as an apology.
Artemis could relate to that, “We need not repeat the mistakes of our parents, I know that better than most.”
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“I’m impressed,” Alastair said out of nowhere. Artemis whipped around and saw the man standing behind him. Alastair continued, “You’ve cracked a record number of cases in the time you’ve been here and that case with Caroline Holland, genius. You know, the demons that had to carry out her torture plan still have nightmares about it.”
Artemis took a breath, “Jesus. Ali, don’t sneak up on me.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Alastair said.
Artemis glared and in response Alastair pulled Artemis into a hug. “I’m sorry.” Alastair said, “I would never try to scare you on purpose, you know that right?”
“I know.” Artemis mumbled into Alastair’s shoulder. The scary thing was, he meant it.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
“How are your studies going?” Alastair said stepping back.
Artemis had been attempting to learn the ancient demon language which Alastair told him only a handful of trusted acolytes were taught. It was interesting to say the least, the syllables, alien but viscerally human, like the sound that came before speech. The language was a lot less pedantic than English, enabling the user to communicate pure feeling, vague notions to cut through unimportant things and get straight to the point.
He had started learning when Alastair carved each sigel into his skin and made him sound each one out. He shuddered at the thought. He reminded himself that it was over now, that was when things were… bad.
Artemis shrugged, “I’m almost fluent.”
Pride glinted in Alastair’s eyes, “Has anyone ever told you how brilliant you are?”
“It’s come up.” Artemis said, eyes cast down, cheeks alight with embarrassment.
“Well, you are.” Alastair said with a soft smile. “How’s the work going?”
“I’m exploring a few routes that I think would increase soul acquisition.” Artemis said, “We’ve been trying to erode universal healthcare rights in a few countries, you know, adverts about benefit scroungers and the like. We’ve found lack of access to healthcare increases desperation indexes, violent crime, and sale of souls.”
“How wonderfully diabolical.” Alastair said, pleased, “Allow them to destroy themselves.”
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Artemis and Meg sat atop a building on the surface layer, staring up into the sky as red lightning cracked across it.
They were both slightly drunk, as per usual and their feet dangled over the edge. Artemis had taken to drugs and alcohol as of late, which would have been odd for him, if he hadn’t spent the last few years in Hell. He found that sometimes, they dulled the aching wounds that resided in his head. Every so often something would remind him of the boy in the basement (He hadn’t even known his name) which would send him into a spiral and he would spend the entire week addling himself. Those were the darkest times.
As for Meg, well she just enjoyed it.
Artemis peered down to the street below, “Do you think I would leave this place if I jumped? Do you think it would stop?”
Meg froze, “Artemis, how about we have this conversation inside?”
He didn’t say anything.
Meg frowned, “What would stop?”
“The noise.” Artemis said as if it was obvious, “In my head.”
Meg was at a loss, “I don’t know.” She paused, “Artemis, we should go inside, come on.” She took his arm.
“Yeah, okay.” he said, standing.
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Artemis swept through the corridors of hell with a confidence it had taken long to acquire. He was in a bad mood, itching to inflict it upon someone else, but alas, he had a job to do. Demons guarded some doors, casually leaning against the walls.
A guard muttered something unsavoury under his breath, “The fuck is a human doing out its cage, apparently now you can just pick your favourite whore to run the domain. I haven’t had a promotion in…” Artemis had stopped, when he heard it causing the guard to trail off.
He squared up to the demon, his eyes flashing black, “I have never understood why people stage whisper, it’s as good as yelling.” The way he said it was casual enough for the guard to be unnerved.
“Sir, I didn’t…”
A knife plunged into the demon’s side, and no one dared to move. The demon winced but did not react, in fear of angering Alastair.
Artemis gestured to the other guards, “Seize him. I want him secured in that room, now.”
The other demons gingerly obeyed, binding their friend. One piped up, “That room’s already occupied-”
“I don’t care, just do it.” The company should make this more humiliating if nothing else, he thought.
The group scrambled away, tripping over themselves to do what they were told.
He stalked into the room, ignoring the woman bound up in the corner. He headed straight towards the demon. The first hour was spent skinning the demon alive. During the second he indulged himself with waterboarding the demon with holy water which burnt the demon like acid.
The sense of power he got from inflicting so much pain was intoxicating.
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Alastair approached him one day, a distant look in his eye, “I have a task for my esteemed right-hand man.”
“And who would that be?” Artemis asked.
At this, Alastair laughed, “That would be you.”
Artemis grinned, “I’m your right-hand man?”
Alastair inclined his head in an affirmative gesture.
“So, what do you need?” Artemis asked.
“A minor scuffle on the eastern borders has become a sustained conflict.” Alastair said, “I have business elsewhere, but I would like you to be in charge of the defensive effort against the insurgents.”
Artemis shook his head, “I don’t know anything about combat… I’m not suited to this.”
“You’re a quick learner.” Alastair said with a fond smile, “You have already picked up well on the self-defence we’ve been practising, you’re good with a knife. You’ll take to commanding a battlefield the same way.”
Artemis shrugged, looking down and closing in on himself, shyly. “Okay… I just don’t want to disappoint you.”
“You won’t. I need someone I can trust on the front.” Alastair said, “We do not currently have the capabilities to kill the insurgents in great numbers so you will only be slowing them down.”
Artemis frowned, “Who are these insurgents?”
Alastair's expression soured, “Agents of heaven.”
Artemis did a double take, “Like… angels?”
“I’m afraid so.” Alastair said.
Artemis took a moment to digest it, “When will I be taking over the operation?”
“A few days, so I suggest you say your goodbyes. You’ll be at the eastern front in two days.” Alastair said, matter of factly.
Artemis stepped back, “The front? I cannot go to the front,” he said. Because he couldn’t, he could not under any circumstances fight in all out combat.
Alastair clapped him on the back, “It’ll be good for you, think of this as a learning opportunity.” He said, “You’ll do great.”
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“Do you ever miss your family?” Dean mused as they walked outside, near the emergency trenches and defences.
Artemis shrugged, aware that this was dangerous territory, “Sometimes, I try not to think about it. You?”
“Yeah.” Dean blew out a breath, “I’ve got a little brother, Sammy. He’s still alive, he’s old enough to look after himself too but….”
After a short deliberation, Artemis sat against the wall of sandbags that surrounded the trench, arms wrapped around his knees, “I’ve got two younger brothers, twins. I hope they’re okay.”
Dean sat next to him, “How old?”
“I… don’t know.” Artemis said, “I know time here works differently, but I don’t even know how long I’ve been gone, I don’t think I’m ageing here at all. They were three when I left.”
“Do they have parents looking after them?” Dean asked.
Artemis snorted, “I’d like to think so. My father was… I believe the term is ‘a dead-beat’. He promised he would change but he made similar promises when I was young too. My mother is nice, she tries to be supportive, she really does but… she wants a ‘normal’ family and sometimes she forgets to appreciate her family as it is. She was always trying to get me to act like someone else.”
Dean listened and didn’t react for a moment and then, “It sounds like they care, even if… they have problems.”
“Yeah. Yes, they do.”
Artemis saw a white flash light up a battlefield in the distance, “Do you think they’ll be here soon? The insurgents.”
Dean shrugged, “I’ve heard they’ve taken the eastern sects; it won’t be long. Three years at the most.”
Artemis rested his head on Dean’s shoulder, “What about your parents?”
“My mom died when I was young.” Dean said, “And my Dad… he spent his whole life hunting the thing that killed her. He didn’t pay me and Sammy that much attention. I had had to raise Sam on my own. Sometimes Dad would be gone for months, and I wouldn’t have enough money to feed Sammy.”
Artemis didn’t really know what to say. “I’m sorry that happened to you.” He said, gripping Dean’s hand.
Dean smiled and wrapped a hand round his shoulders.
“Do you think it’s strange?” Artemis asked, “I don’t hate him. Alastair. I think I… I-” He could never finish that sentence.
Dean looked down at him, “A little, yeah.” They were both silent for a moment, the sound of fighting echoing in the distance.
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Two years later, in Hell.
Nine days later, on earth.
Glancing around the battlefield like a spooked rabbit, Artemis looked for friendly territory. He had been stuck in no-mans land for days, cut off from the front line by a pincer movement. His squadron had all been killed or scattered.
He had been directing this war for over two years and he could not see an end in sight.
The thing about a lack of technology that could accurately map and track hell (it constantly shifted and omitted false signals) is that news travels slowly. It could be hours before a runner could alert him to a defeat or change which was only made worse by the fact that angels nor demons slept, battle was constant and fast moving.
There was no time to sit comfortably behind front lines and strategize, so he led forces on the front and tasked other generals with the same. It made each unit more independent and quick, they could mobilise in minutes, compared to their angelic counterparts who waited hours to be given orders to attack.
That all said, even though Artemis had superior tactics, they were still locked in a stalemate with the angels who held the inherent advantage of being freaking angels. They could smite with the flick of a wrist and were exceptionally hard to kill. Traps could be set with sigels that banished them far away but they would only come back. It soon became obvious that while demon weapons could weaken angels, they could not kill them. Only the angel's own blades guaranteed that, Artemis found after several months of gruelling losses.
The problem was that angels did not take kindly to being separated from their weapons. The few times one had been recovered during a fight, they would be barraged by concentrated attacks until the angels recovered the weapon.
The sky flashed and a being came hurtling towards the front line with a boom, sending Artemis hurtling. He rolled into a crouch, his eyes turning an inky black. A woman appeared from the smoke, eyes a glowing a brilliant white light.
She slipped a gleaming silver knife from her sleeve and walked slowly toward him. He went at her with a run and they grappled, he flicked his switchblade out and embedded it in the angels side. She looked down at it, pulled it out and slashed his side with it and went to stab him. Artemis caught the knife and threw it, sending it skittering away. The angel tried to stab him with her own silver blade and Artemis skipped away, then grabbed the hilt of the dagger. They wrestled for control of it before he plunged it into her side, and she fell, her eyes flashing with a great white light.
The next moment he was thrown sideways propelled by a shell detonating a few metres away.
Fuck. Was the only word that came to Artemis’ mind as he fixed his eyes to the cluster of bright lights in the distance. A new wave of angels were now on the move and he was caught in no-man’s land. That meant he would be caught by the next barrage of shelling. He staggered to his feet, making a break for friendly territory.
Explosions rocked the earth around him, sending him stumbling. He found his feet again and continued, finally catching sight of the trench. He ran at full speed and jumped onto the ditch, his back resting against the sandbags.
“Sir?” Someone asked, “Sir, are you okay?” A demon, corporal Amar was fussing over him.
“Fine. I’m fine.” Artemis said.
“Fuck, he’s bleeding. Does anyone know how to stop humans bleeding?” Said Amar, more than a little panicked.
Artemis cursed as he looked down and saw the blood seeping through his combat gear. At a guess he would say shrapnel from the blasts was the culprit here. That was his last thought before the dark enveloped him.
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Artemis awoke in a bed, in a new set of clothes, feeling like shit. He raised his shirt to see the rushed surgical job, keeping him alive. Usually, he would have been attended to, but this was an active war zone, everyone was a little occupied. He sat up, wincing and limped into cobbles outside.
A shrill alarm bell rang through the night air and suddenly the street was abuzz with activity.
“Breach! Breach!” Came a scream, “The city has been breached!”
Artemis waded through the panic, a little disorientated. A few moments later he found himself in an empty alley, explosions sounding in the distance.
The sky flashed with an almighty crack and the earth shook, sending him sprawling to the floor. Artemis slammed his eyes shut against the burning light.The light faded as Artemis uncovered his eyes squinting to see a figure emerge from the dimming glare. The man wore a trench coat over a cheap black and white suit with a blue tie hanging loosely from its collar. His eyes were of a deep piercing blue, his hair brown and stuck up as if it had been styled. He walked slowly towards him in deliberate calm steps.
“Artemis Fowl.” Came a deep rumbling voice.
“That’s me.” Artemis said, unsure. His eyes flicked to a pitched black. He pulled a knife out of his boot and plunged it into the man’s shoulder. He didn’t even flinch. Damn, it never worked but it was worth a try, after all, Artemis couldn’t run.
The man raised a hand to Artemis’s head and said, “You shouldn’t be here. Your soul has been… dirtied.”
Artemis screamed as the white light filled his vision, falling to one knee.
If Artemis could see what the man saw however, he would see his soul, blackened by the corruption of Hell, shedding its shell, and becoming a pure blue light.
When it stopped, Artemis was gasping, on his knees and feeling lighter than he had in years.
The man considered him, “I am not here for you, nor do I have clearance to help you. You had a plan, didn’t you, to escape purgatory?” A small smile danced in the man’s eyes, “I think I can open the door. Good luck.”
And then Artemis was falling. Sideways. Again.
Crap.
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A short time later, a victory drunk war cry rang out across all of heaven; “Dean Winchester has been raised from perdition, Dean Winchester is saved.”