This is my first attempt at fan fiction of any kind and my first real attempt at writing as well.

Edit: Thanks to BlackOpal [For all the support and encouragement. For allowing me to talk her ear off through every idea to strike me.]

RyaniTenebrae [For whipping this ill-formatted mess into shape. I have no doubts that you'll be a "real" editor someday.]


The show was long over, most of the guests having faded like the flash of the reporters' cameras.

Those that remained were there for a reason, scattered throughout the building, postures tense, waiting for the real game to begin. Focusing his attention to the opposite end of the room, he calmed his nerves by reminding himself that none of it applied to him, that he was just there on a technicality. It didn't work. Sometimes a technicality was all it took to completely ruin a plan. He wasn't where he should have been, but there would be time enough for that later.

Artemis watched for longer than he meant to.

The girl could have been any age; it was impossible to tell by looking at her. Her eyes slid from the work on the wall to the plaque that hung beside it and back again, much in the same way as those that observed it at the viewing; her features, however, held none of their same feigned interest or approval.

Hers was a look of disappointment.

Artemis moved to her side, acutely aware of the footlights casting lengthened shadow onto the marble floor as he passed them. He took in the painting for a moment before making any observation of the girl.

Finally, he spoke, never moving his eyes from the work.

"What do you think of it?"

There was no hesitation in her response.

"I expected more."

Somehow, that was funny. This simple girl spoke as if her review held far more merit than the award mounted on the wall.
"The critics don't seem to agree." He stepped closer to the painting, fingers outstretched, as if thinking to touch the canvas. "The brush work is beautiful, and the composition is near perfect." He glanced back at her now, gauging the reaction.

"I don't see what's wrong with it."

Her shoulders tensed, but her voice remained understated. "I didn't say it was poor, just that I expected better. All it manages to express is sadness, and that's the easiest thing in the world to make a person feel."

"Well, discontentment is the time honored state of an artist. It's because of that devotion we're able to experience it."

"But why would anyone want to feel depressed?"

Realizing her last remark was sincere - not part of their debate - he paused, thinking it over

"Maybe it's because that's the kind of sadness that dissipates quickly. Maybe being able to summon and dismiss those feelings so quickly makes us feel we have more power to dismiss our own unpleasant emotions."

They were both silent for a moment.

He stole a sideways glance at her. "Still, you a have a very apt opinion. Where do you study art?"

She looked away. "My living room, mostly."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I just assumed..."

"That I was more qualified?"

"Well, if it's any consolation, I've seen people from backgrounds twice as qualified present points that make half as much sense."

She met his eyes now, a half smile playing at her lips. "Who are you to question the qualifications of my living room?"

"I was just about to get to that." He extended a hand.

"My name is Artemis."

In response, she just stared at him. She seemed to be trying to figure out whether or not he was kidding. Finally, she decided he wasn't.

"What a strange name."

"Trust me, it wasn't my idea. You know the custom is for you to give me your name before you begin insulting mine."

She gripped his hand. "I didn't mean it like that. I'm Angeline."

He returned her smile. "And what sort of painting are you working on, Angeline?"

She looked like someone that had just met a psychic and was totally unaware of their technique. That type of reaction always annoyed him.

"Your hands."

She glanced at her own open hand, realizing what he must have seen. Still, only the faintest specks of green remained beneath her fingernails.

When her eyes returned to his, it was as if she was looking at some unknown animal. "Whoa. Um, that's kind of freaky."

As he tried in vain to recall how he had been taught to handle situations like this, aware that each second passing only made it worse, his demeanor slipped slightly.

"Sorry. I, um, do that sometimes."

She shifted, crossing her arms behind her back. "It's cool, actually, that you're so tuned in." He felt a flicker of relief.

"Tell me about your painting."

"Oh, it's nothing much, I'm trying to..."

Suddenly, she broke off, her eyes moving from his face to the area slightly above and behind his head. He knew exactly what she was looking at, but decided just to wait for it, turning to watch the man approach.

"There you are." The man's words came in the tone of a relieved parent that had relocated a lost child.

Artemis halted the next inquiry before it could come, taking a step back and gesturing towards the larger man.

"Angeline, this is my bodyguard," Then, quickly trying to lighten the statement, "Who has apparently developed a sense for introductions."

The bodyguard, having long ago learned that his physical gestures were intimating, didn't offer his hand, instead waiting until she met his eyes, and holding them for a moment.

"My name is Daire. Nice to meet you." He addressed the boy again in the same breath. "I hate to be rude, but Mister Delaso is waiting."

Angeline seemed to be physically affected by this statement, her posture changing so quickly that the bracelets on her arm slid into each other and clattered like bells.

"You're here to meet Lisle Delaso?"

"Yes. In fact, I'm late. But I'll be sure to mention how fond you are of his work."

Artemis' smile gave away none of his apprehension.