1A/N: Hello everyone! It has been nine million years since I've posted any of my work, but I've been wanting to get this story up and going for ages now, and I figured posting the first chapter would get me motivated to finish it! And the movie's coming out soon (rip in advance) so hopefully people will be getting into AF again in general. I hope y'all enjoy this first chapter and please let me know what you think! :)
for whatever we lose
(like a you or a me)
it's always ourselves
we find in the sea
- e.e. cummings
One: RE(habilitation)
Sydney, Australia
Every morning, immediately after he awakens, Artemis Fowl II reaches for the glass of water on his bedside table. He takes a sip and wipes the sweat from his brow, and as far as Artemis is concerned, that is how every day begins in Sydney. Humid and slightly unpleasant, sure. Not what he's used to. But nothing that a Fowl cannot withstand when the Fowl fortune... when success is on the line.
The road to success begins, as it were, with Artemis's 17 minute walk from his apartment to RC Headquarters (18 minutes if he hits several red pedestrian lights in a row). Artemis is above-average in most ways, and yet, even as a boy, he did not excel in physical fitness and wanted no part in it. But walking is really the only choice of transportation he has, what with the end of most cars and modern gadgetry in the Technological Crash about 10 years back.
"And so I march along," he mutters, voice rough.
The sun's rays never cease their stomping on his shoulder blades, and he again questions how, modern transportation or not, he's had the misfortune to end up working in a location where he must suffer through a 17-minute commute by foot in the sweltering heat.
Once the new tech reform is on its feet, he thinks as the sun's rays stomp on his shoulder blades, I must have a talk with Kronski about moving forward with my automobile plans.
Although the Crash occurred when he was only 17 years old, the evidence of the Crash is still alive and well as he walks to work each day. Where there used to be businesses, there are mostly abandoned storefronts and squatters here and there on the sidewalks (with the crash of tech came the end of electronic banking, leaving most businesses doomed to immediate bankruptcy). A good majority of technology (with some odd, primitive exceptions) exploded and was rendered non-functional, throwing everyday life back into the distant past—the opposite of the information and innovation age to which they were charging prior to the Crash. Research is now limited to paper sources, newspapers, anything that was salvaged from the internet. Letter-writing (and telephones, for the lucky few) are once again the best communication options.
Worst of all, the aforementioned explosions wreaked havoc on the environment. Which explains the consistently high temperatures that plague Artemis.
Though he's not quite sure why, this morning he distinctly feels like he would give anything for a rainy day in Ireland. It's been years since he's felt any nostalgia for his boyhood home, so he doesn't know why it strikes him today.
Well, anything would be preferable to this misery, anyway, he thinks as he tries to push up the sleeves on his blazer, allow any more air to reach his wrists. The irony—of him walking to work, adorned in crisp business clothes against the backdrop of a crumbling stone-age city—is not lost on him. He laughs a single, cold laugh.
At one point several years back—who even keeps track of those, anymore?—he acquired a print-out of an old web article that detailed the old Techno Crash. Pictures of rubble, planes losing power mid-air, convenience stores under siege. A pixie-turned-human was behind the whole ordeal, supposedly—some woman named Koboi, if he remembers correctly.
That was long before he became involved in any of this fairy business, though. He couldn't tell you the specifics of the Crash beyond what was in the public record. Not even Koboi's first name.
Not that it matters. 17 minutes later, Artemis arrives at headquarters. Not soon enough.
It towers over him in a small way, hardly a skyscraper and more like an apartment complex where your neighbors watch your every move through the slits in the curtains. Artemis fights the curl of his lip at the shoddy place at which he now has to do his work.
Artemis scans his ID at the front entrance. It's a primitive system that he himself developed for the building; it keeps RC up-to-date, improves security, and is the first in a long line of RC tech innovation. That's why Kronski first brought Artemis on board with the company a year ago—for a hefty salary, of course.
He gets the small green light of recognition and walks inside. As he passes under the RC logo, all primary colors and angular lines, he feels his body temperature finally lower a few degrees.
The receptionist, Ms. Frond, is at her desk. "Good morning, Mr. Fowl. Nice day?"
"Nice as any other," he says in his most pleasant voice.
Her tattoo, an artistic swirl of colors and numbers, dances on her forearm and jumbles Artemis's gaze as she fills out his clock-in information. "Which floor, sir?"
"Third." He signs the sheet for Ms. Frond and starts up the stairs to the top floor. His face remains neutral as his mind shifts to his job. His hands fidget ever so slightly—another trace of heat exposure taking its toll on him, no doubt.
But all in all, aside from the heat, Artemis likes his routine. Excels at it, even. It's mundane and unchanging and logical.
He excels at it, Kronski tells him.
And excellence is how he gets what he wants.
Kronski isn't at his desk when Artemis deadbolts the third floor lock behind him. Probably still asleep. Artemis tries to muffle the disdainful thought, heading to his desk. Now isn't the time or place for dissatisfaction, but for working towards the goal. The plan.
Artemis has to admit, if his idiosyncratic boss is savvy about one thing, it's how to secure a building the old fashioned way. The third floor is encased in impenetrable steel—bulletproof, bombproof, and most importantly, fairy-proof. The windows are made out of two-way glass, so while Artemis and Kronski can keep an eye on the outside world, they still maintain a wide distance between themselves and any prying eyes.
The two of them are the only ones with authorization to work on or even pass through this floor. Luckily, that means that Artemis does not have to deal with Kronski's lower-level employees (dealing with people is still not his strongest suit, even at 25 years old).
The third floor office consists of two large desk cubicles, a small kitchenette, and a bedroom. Artemis assumes that Kronski lives in the office since he can't remember ever actually seeing the man leave once work is over (whenever that may be).
The only other feature of the their office is a collection of machine guns from the 1800s, somehow not rendered useless by the Techno Crash. They're scattered strategically throughout the space—one next to Kronski's desk, another in his closet, another under his bed. Even one under Artemis's own desk. It makes Artemis's skin crawl to think of firing the thing. It concerns him even more to think of Kronski doing it.
He remembers having a bodyguard… a servant of some kind as a boy. He had a plethora of guns. Artemis never recalls having the same sort of apprehension at him handling weapons.
But the guns are a large part of why Kronski has him here. So Artemis puts on a vampire smile and stays focused on his job, just like he had for the past eight years.
My, eight years… how the time flies by in such infinitesimal increments, Artemis muses. But he doesn't worry. He'll spend as many years with RC as it takes to reach his goals.
That said, his time with RC-the Rehabilitationist Company-feels like a blur of both constant motion and little progress. That was more or less inevitable, given how the company began as a fringe operation just months after the Crash.
RC operated on the outskirts for several years before it ever gained any traction with the public-or the advantage of technology, thanks to one Artemis Fowl II.
As Artemis passes by Kronski's desk, he sees it's in its usual chaotic state. Pens strewn about the desks, scribbled-on papers and photographs pinned to the walls, and the constant whirring of two different computer systems running at the same time (salvaged from the Crash and fixed up by Artemis, of course). Artemis's own desk is neat, expertly organized, and keeps his mind clear and efficient. Though the two cubicles seem like complete opposites, like they don't even belong in the same building, they have a distinct unifying factor. Every paper, photograph, email, meeting agenda—they all have a common theme, whether they're in a tidy pile or permeate every bit of counter space.
Everything has fairies as its subject matter.
Artemis goes through pages with a red pen, last-minute fine-tuning. The edits are arbitrary at this point, but he does them anyway. The pages detail the incentives that fairies will now be offered for completing an accelerated Integration program—guaranteed above-ground employment, human citizenship, waivers allowing above-ground housing.
"Pretty generous, given how we could just blow up the lot of them if they double crossed us, eh?" Kronski would say.
Artemis is not so sure that the fairy people can be taken down that easily. But he lets Kronski believe what he wants to believe.
Artemis feels the smallest tensing in his back when he hears the door click, but his face is impassive as always as he makes eye contact with Kronski. The man looks like he just rolled out of bed, clothes wrinkled, red-and-white hair pulled into a greasy ponytail—-but his eyes are sharp like a snake's, like he's been awake for hours.
This contradiction is what Artemis has come to expect everyday.
Kronski saunters up to Artemis's desk, coffee cup in hand. "Morning, Arty," he drawls in his New Orleans accent, stronger on some days than others. "How're our pretty little incentives today?"
"Everything is in order." Artemis flips a page, moving onto the section regarding fairy-human code of conduct. His role in tech innovation had slowly expanded to something greater than that. More power in the company is never a bad thing, as far as Artemis is concerned.
"Ah, great, great. And the DNA guns? They gonna be ready by the end of the week?"
"Sooner than that is my intention, actually."
"Arty!" Kronski gives him a pat on the back, and Artemis tries not to tense against the touch. "Always achieving, exceeding my expectations. You make it look easy."
"Well, my efforts are more effective than the average person's," he smirks up at Kronski. "I foresee the DNA guns being usable in the field as early as tomorrow."
Kronski plays with his cup, tracing his finger in circles along its rim. "Mixing guns with fairy mumbo-jumbo... I gotta say, that's downright crazy talk to me. If you can understand my doubts."
"It's a valid concern. But perhaps my computer model can put your mind at ease." I shouldn't have to hold your hand while you run your company, Artemis thinks but doesn't say. "I assure you, Doctor, the DNA sample you so kindly provided gave me all that I needed to perfect my design. Have a look."
Artemis's computer is no Macintosh, but it means he's not stuck in the Stone Age with the rest of humanity, and it does what he needs it to do—albeit at a slower processing speed. After a few moments, several blueprints appear on his desktop along with a colorized 3D model. In the animated model, an RC scout is in combat with an airborne fairy officer. When the RC scout fires the DNA gun and hits the fairy, the animation goes into slow motion; it shows the fairy falling to the ground, tranquilized of all magic abilities, like shielding and flying, as well as basic movements as the DNA gun's ammo enters his or her bloodstream. This makes it possible for the RC agent to take even the most quarrelsome fairies back to headquarters to start undergoing rehabilitation.
"Huh. You really outdid yourself on this one," Kronski says after a moment, his thick accent suddenly gone (as is sometimes the case).
Artemis shrugs. "It wasn't terribly difficult."
"Well, good. Better than good, actually! This is a game-changer for RC, Arty. This just gets us one step closer to getting all the fairies on board. They'll never want to head back underground again when they get used to our world."
The way Kronski describes rehabilitation makes it sound as if he really does want to make the world a better place. Since the Crash, fairies and humans have not had the easiest time coexisting. So rather than constantly being at odds with each other, why not just welcome fairies into the human world? This is where RC comes in, according to Kronski.
Sometimes Artemis wonders if the forced assimilation of fairies is the best next step in interspecies relations. He wonders how humane Kronski would be with the fairies he wants to "welcome" to headquarters. And he wonders why Kronski reminds him so much of the sinister man he sold that lemur to when he was a young boy.
But the success of RC means success for Artemis. And so he says nothing about what he wonders, and instead he sends his DNA gun blueprints down to the second floor for immediate manufacturing.
Extant Haven
Vice Commander Holly Short awakens to sound of crumbling in the ceiling above her. She rolls out of her sleeping cot onto the concrete and covers her head. Moments later, a chunk of the ceiling dislodges and crashes down where Holly had been sleeping moments before—and as far as Holly is concerned, this is more or less how every day begins in Extant Haven. Unpredictable and slightly unpleasant, sure. But nothing that a Commander of the LEP cannot withstand when protecting the People is on the line.
Sometimes Holly thinks about the good old days, when she'd take a short walk from her garden apartment to the LEP Office each day. Maybe she'd jump on a magma flare for a thrill ride if work called for it. At the time, her daily commute felt mundane. Working on petty thief cases day after day... so boring.
Her hunger for adventure was only ever satisfied once. By a strange Mud Boy with a vampire smile and sad eyes.
Nowadays, there are many more adventures each day. Although, nowadays she longs for a time when her "commute" didn't include dodging humans at every corner.
"D'Arvit," Holly mutters when she sees them, ducking behind an overflowing trashcan and waiting for silence. When she thinks she's waited long enough, she peeks her head around the trashcan to see the patrol of human soldiers that nearly spotted her.
Their uniforms are modeled after the old LEP style. Foaly completely revamped Recon uniforms after the Crash, reasoning that it would both make the police harder to identify and target and reduce the chance of Mud Men disguising themselves as very, very tall fairy officers.
It's hard for Holly to see these advantages, though. To her, it was the first small defeat of the People. Changing the People to appease the Mud Men.
She considers moving out from behind the trashcan, shouting out "Hey, Mud Men, you lookin' for a fight today?" and seeing what happens.
But then she thinks of Foaly, and Trouble, and both of them always warning her to stay out of danger's way. So she stops herself.
Captain Holly Short would've never shied away from danger. But Vice Commander Short has seen different horrors and is kept awake by new nightmares. She activates the shield on her suit and slips past the Mud Men, not so much as stepping on the wrong mound of dirt.
She walks shielded until she's sure she hasn't been followed. It's too risky to full-out fly in Haven anymore; new Mud Men technology means sensors that pick up on the vibrations from fairy wings beating against the air. Holly has no idea where this type of innovation is coming from when for the most part, they still don't even have cars above ground.
She has suspicions that she ignores.
By foot, it's roughly 17 minutes from Holly's apartment to LEP Headquarters—more like 18 if she stops to smell the few flowers left along the road. She doesn't run into anymore human patrols on her way. Thanks to Foaly, light strips on the underground's ceiling illuminate what's left of Haven Extant, showing her abandoned buildings and a thoroughfare overgrown with weeds. The People's businesses are now kept behind closed doors, lest any Mud Men hunt them down.
Even the LEP's HQ had to be relocated to an invisibility-rigged shack on the outskirts of town that can't fit more than 20 fairies. It works well enough, considering the LEP's decrease in numbers with every passing year (through both budget cuts and casualties).
Holly's heart sinks when she sees yet another group of Mud Men, prodding the ground with archaic looking machine guns. Just a few more steps and they would discover the shielded HQ building, and that would be the end of the People as they know it.
Holly walks around to the back of the building, dodging debris and looking behind her every few steps. She doesn't stop shielding until she's passed the facial recognition barrier and slipped into Foaly's office through the window.
Foaly jumps when he hears Holly's feet hit the ground. "I really do need a better alarm for when officers come in here."
"Yes, and alert my presence to the swarm of Mud People out there as well. Really strong concept."
"You're kidding! Not them again," says Foaly, drawing his tin foil hat down tighter on his head. He started wearing it again after the Crash.
"I'd hate to see the day one of them actually grows a brain."
"Well, we know how dangerous they can be with one," Foaly says through bites of carrot, "I mean, think about Artemis." Holly's gaze drops abruptly and Foaly freezes. He changes the subject. "How's my favorite news-star hot-shot Commander."
Holly bounces back quickly. "Oh, so that's my official title now?"
"Going by these headlines, yes." On Foaly's desk lay dozens of newspaper clippings, and they all say the same thing. Vice Commander Short Gives the People Hope... Vice Commander Fights Rehabilitation Movement... Short Saves Starving Sprites...
After serving in the public eye for so many years, and after being criticized for even more years, it feels surreal for Holly to suddenly be lauded as a hero. As Trouble Kelp's shining second in command. A 10 year crisis and an interspecies war seemed to have that effect on Haven.
"Sure is an upgrade from Crazy Girl Captain. Where's my raise, then?" Holly smirks.
Foaly clicks his tongue. "Always the idealist, Holly," and he holds up this month's issue of Ireland Today. "There's no money for raises when the People's taxes are going to all this good will and friendly negotiations."
"Ah well. Silly me. No mention of wars in the paper, then?"
"Nope."
"Abductions of the People?"
"Failed abductions, I think you mean. But afraid not."
"Human occupation?"
Foaly mock-gasps. "Now what even is that?"
It's all Holly can do to laugh at it all. She's a proud fairy, and it kills her to see what's become of her city. Her People. There was a time when she'd almost learned to trust humans, thought they might not be so bad. But of course, when the People are no longer the earth's secret, it's become all too clear to Holly just how selfish and violent humans have always been. It will always be them versus the People.
Luckily, the Mud People haven't been successful in capturing any fairies yet. There was only one person who could pull off a kidnapping like that.
And he's been missing for years.
It's at that moment that Holly's com radio starts beeping (with helmet communication still not up and running, speaking through wristwatches has been the next best option). Trouble Kelp's face flashes onto the watch's surface. His mouth is a hard line.
"Vice Commander, Foaly, turn on the surveillance videos. District C. Our friends have a new trick up their sleeves."
There's only one fairy computer system left in Haven, and it's the system directly in front of Foaly. Free of any Koboi technology that would've rendered it useless in the Crash. He does as Trouble says.
"I'm patching into District C right now, Commander."
At first, Holly doesn't see anything out of the ordinary on the screen. A Mud Patrol in the northeast corner, same archaic-looking guns as the ones outside.
There are three pixie civilians south of the humans; they're shielded, but they are obviously not exactly trained for "stealth," and they are trying to run past the patrol rather than quietly sneak. But still, they should be able to get past them just fine if they're shielded.
Unfortunately, one of them trips over a dirt mound, his small body tumbling to the ground. The group remains shielded as they help up their fallen friend and continue running away. The patrol shouldn't spot them even with the incident.
But then the patrol takes fire in the fairies' exact direction.
The three all go down one by one.
The scariest part? Their shields, which are second nature to fairies, disappear as they fall to the ground. As the patrol closes in, Holly keeps expecting them to stand up, shield again, put up a fight.
But the patrol just loads them into body bags, faint.
"Foaly, what's happening? Why can't they move?" The patrol is leaving the frame now. "They're getting away with three pixies who can't move."
"I know, I see that." Foaly's voice is tight, panicked.
"Can't we do anything?"
"Like what, Holly?"
Foaly is silent as Holly rages on at him, saying how they can go after them, fight, not let them leave, help them. Holly doesn't stop until her throat hurts and she realizes that Foaly isn't the one she should be yelling at.
Sydney, Australia
Artemis awakens from the nightmare like he always does, with that same feeling of his blood draining out of him. The moonlight filters in through the window blinds; Artemis fell asleep at his desk again. He hears that comforting sound of Kronski tapping away on his keyboard in the adjacent cubicle. He's safe, then.
The nightmare always feels too vivid to just be a figment of his imagination, almost like it's a memory of some sort.
But Artemis has worked with RC for eight years now, long enough to know that the nightmare, the fire and roses and crying, is all merely residuals from the enemy's tampering with his mind. Giving him memories and hallucinations that never happened.
When you're a criminal genius like Artemis, people will always try to take advantage of you. Tell you lies. Get you on their side. The trick is to always make your own choices.
After the techno-crash, Artemis's car lasted for a three weeks before it gave out on him permanently, leaving him stranded at a motel in Liverpool. Two years of trying to start-up his own tech company later, a prospective employer tracked him down and offered him a developmental position with RC. He flew in a rusted, old-school jet to Headquarters in Sydney, and the rest is history.
That prospective employer was one Damon Kronski, previous leader of the Extinctionists. He calls Artemis their ace in the hole. RC's best-kept secret weapon.
Artemis turned his head the other way when it came to the man's past.
And still wonders why it all sounds so familiar.
