Author's note: Ever wonder what would happen if Artemis lost his intelligence? Want to peer into his diseased soul? Well, go ahead, read this rather unconventional fic. If you will remember Foaly's words in The Eternity Code, he said that the mind wipe has a lesser chance of lowering his IQ. Key word being lesser chance.

AU, I suppose, because Artemis seems fine after the mind wipe in the Eternity Code.

First person POV, a first for me, and written in the present tense predominantly, also a personal first. Excuse a few mixing up of the tenses, I originally wrote it in the past tense before I realized it would convey the desired effect better if it were done in the present tense. So there are bound to be a few mistakes.

I am submitting this fic for the Criminality challenge, February/March, which requires a fic inspired by the term 'idiot savant'. Well, this isn't exactly idiot savant, but Blue Yeti assured me it was in the spirit of it. *shrugs*

So, be sure to leave me a review, people. I have a weird feeling I am going to get some flames before long, for some peculiar reason.

Enjoy! (or not)

Insecurity

Foaly stepped in. "There are two kinds of mind wipe. A block wipe, which takes out everything in the chosen period. Holly could do that with the equipment in her bag. And a fine-tune wipe, which only deletes certain memories. This is a more specialized procedure, but there is less danger of a drop in IQ. A ninety-nine point seven six percent chance that you will be unaffected, actually, memories aside, of course."

"Very well," said Artemis. "I accept your offer." Doubts more or less assuaged, Artemis could consent with peace of mind. But a niggling doubt at the back of his mind repeated: but there is always that point two four percent…

*

I wake up with a blinding headache. Straight away, I know something is dreadfully wrong. I grope around and find I still had two legs, two arms, a head, a torso, my extremities, and whatnot. That only leaves one thing. My most precious commodity, my pride and joy, the apple of my eye.

My mind.

Strangely, a thought springs unbidden to my mind. But there is always that point two four percent…I shake my head. The thought seems totally tangential to my circumstances. A symptom of my drastic loss of intelligence, no doubt.

There. I have said it. I feel an inane desire to scream, to kick, to throw something heavy across the room. But I know it would be to no avail.

My mind is different. The same, yet strangely lacking. I put two and two together, a much harder task now than it was before, and come to a conclusion.

My IQ points have mysteriously decreased by approximately fifty points. Were I still a genius, I could have given you the estimated loss of IQ until the fifth decimal point. However, right now, fifty-ish is the best I can come up with. Fifty-ish. The word leaves a sour taste in my mouth.

Of course, with my present IQ of around a hundred and thirty five point six, I am not an asinine imbecile, far from it.

But genius status is no longer mine.

It must be said that there is a big difference between intelligence and powers of recall. People often confuse the two. Powers of recall depended upon memory. That, I retain. Intelligence is the power to reason, to invent, to create. This, I still have, to a degree. But again, I no longer have a plethora of it.

To summarize, I still know that E=MC^2, but I do not know how Einstein had deigned that the speed of light was a constant, nor do I understand why he claims that light consists of waves. Neither do I know why exactly Quantum Theory sets up shop in the opposite side of the road, claiming that light clearly consists of particles.

To reiterate, I have no paucity of IQ at the moment. But I am no longer… Artemis. Yes, that was apt. I am no longer the prodigy, the brain, the genius I was.

And therefore, I am not me anymore.

I glance at my alarm clock. It is time to leave for boarding school. My bags are packed and ready at the doorway, awaiting my departure for yet another week. I change and get ready. I find some peculiar half-corroded lenses in my eye, and shrug them off. This worries me. Normally, my mind would be racing and formulating convoluted theories pertaining to this curious matter. But things are different now.

I leave, giving my mother a cursory kiss on the cheek, as is my habit, bid her and Juliet farewell, and entered the Bentley, where Butler is waiting to chauffeur me to school.

My mind is still mulling over my inexplicable loss of intelligence as Butler drives me to St. Bartleby's School for Young Gentlemen. Normally he would notice my reticence, and query me politely regarding this. But I sense something was different with him as well. Again, however, my mind does not consider this lengthily, and moves on rather arbitrarily, to my irritation.

Up to now, I have been avoiding a tempestual emotion that threatens to leak out. But in the solitude of the backseat of the Bentley, it emerges, rearing its ugly head and taunting me mercilessly.

Insecurity.

I am- was- a confident teenager. But I have no illusions. Most of that confidence sprung from my superior intelligence. I saw the rest of mankind as scum, unworthy of my attention. And from there had my confidence come. There had my self-affirmation, my reassurance, my self-belief drawn its strength from.

But now, it is gone, and I am the lesser for it.

I step out of the Bentley as I reach the school. Butler helps me with my bags and brings them to my room.

I fear. Will my schoolmates be able to sense my lack of intelligence? A part of me cowers pathetically. I take a deep breath and tell myself that everything will be OK.

I am thinking in colloquialisms. This is very worrying.

I walk in the corridors and sense some students glancing at me. I look into their faces and I see scorn and derision, mocking expressions on their faces.

I bow my head and walk on. My loss of intelligence has made me timid.

As I walk, I ponder. Insecurity threatens to overwhelm me, and I have to fight back tears. Who is Artemis Fowl the Second without his intellect? Who, exactly, is this pale, blue eyed adolescent?

I bite my lip. Why has this happened to me? Why? The unfairness of it seeps into my soul, my psyche. But the matter has passed. It is no use crying over the proverbial spilt milk, as the saying goes. My more rebellious side bitterly tells me that now is not the time for empty platitudes. I agree.

I attempt to come to terms with my new intelligence, or rather the lack of it, but to no avail. My insecurity is still ever present, a constant thorn in my side.

The rest of the day passes in a peculiar haze. I vaguely remember attending classes, many classes. I distantly recall a teacher commenting on how strange my unusual silence is. I know of seeing strange looks I received from students, all which ask many questions but seek no answers. But no matter.

The mind is a peculiar thing, is it not? You will find, rather curiously, that it lies to you very often in order to preserve itself, selfish thing that it is. It is far, far easier to be honest to others than it is to yourself.

My mind, onerously taxed by the stress and insecurity which plagued my every waking thought, did just that.

I smoothly told myself that I was still as confident as always.

I glibly reminded myself that Artemis Fowl would never, ever be insecure.

I calmly reassured myself of my infallible pride, my towering hubris.

I lied like a champion.

Sometimes it amazes me how the mind works. Never in my wildest dreams, even during my most daring sojourns in the criminal world, would I have imagined I could deceive someone so utterly.

Nevertheless, by the end of the day, the insecurity is removed. Or rather, masked. I even begin to swagger again, and my facial features rearrange themselves into that cold, arrogant mask of contempt and hubris that is my norm. I tell myself proudly that I had rather valiantly overcome my insecurity, my moment of weakness.

Or so I think.

As I walk back to my dorm after the bell rings to signify the end of the schooling day, I notice once again the looks of scorn and derision which are directed my way. I continue my calm, disinterested walk, lofty disdain on my features, coldness emanating from every pore.

Then, on impulse, I glance at their faces once as I walked by, just once.

And I realize with a jolt that there is no contempt, no derision, and no scorn. I merely perceive apprehension and slight timidity. Their expressions are exactly the same as they were the previous week, and the week before, and the week before.

And then cold certainty gnaws on my liver and whispers sibilantly that I had become susceptible to the emotion that I once thought plagued only lesser mortals than Artemis Fowl.

Insecurity.