A/N: New and improved! I recently reread the original "Like Father, Like Daughter", supposedly my most popular fan fiction, and it. Was. Frikkin. Awful. So I rewrote it!

For those who read the original: Similar plot, I suppose, if you can consider the original to have a plot. More interesting characters (I hope), if you can consider the original characters to be interesting. And definitely more to the point. So here we are. I'm older and more mature, my story is older and more mature, and I'm ready to go at it again.

For those who have not read the original: DON'T.

Without further ado, I give you "Like Father, Like Daughter".

November 15

Everyone's heard the term "like father, like son". As soon as you turn on the T.V., there's some father-son bonding program, some after-school special, some nice family comedy-drama sort of thing. Nine times out of ten, the point of the show is that, no matter how different the father and son might act, no matter how much they seem to hate each other, they are a family and they love each other (without getting too gay about it, god forbid. Men loving men without being related? Blasphemy!). "A chip off the old block"; there's another one. Or how about "the apple never falls far from the tree"? They're all the same basic principle: the son will be like the father. They are an inseparable pair. The classic partnership.

I'll tell you why it's bullshit. First of all, where did all the women go? Suddenly, if you're talking about the unconditional love between two men (who are related, mind you, you homophobic bastards), it's okay to be sexist.

Oh, it's fine. The women are washing the dishes, see? That's their bonding time. We could give you a program about the journey to complete love and understanding between a mother and daughter, but who could relate? There's no wimmins on the internetz.

But that's okay. We're all used to that. It's a patriarchal world we live in. It would be unreasonable to expect anything else. So let's put the sexist aspect aside and get down to the nitty gritty:

It makes no god damn sense! In no way is the child obligated to love the father, mother, father-figure, mother-figure. I say if the adult does not earn respect, the adult does not deserve respect, let alone love and understanding. And in no way is the child obligated to take after the father, mother, etc., etc., because if the adult does not deserve respect, the adult is no one to look up to.

Take my father, for instance. You could say he's a family man. He's got a family. That's about it. Until today, I didn't mind too much looking up to my father. He's smart (to an extent), he's rich, he nailed a woman too beautiful for his own good and she still lives with him. If appearances can be trusted, he's the epitome of perfection; what every youngster should aspire to imitate.

That's what I thought until today, when I learned that everything they've told me is a lie.

Up until now I never knew how my father maintained his vast fortune (I mean, besides not paying his taxes and getting away with it, like all rich men). Yeah, he's a criminal mastermind.

(I know, didn't see that coming, did you?)

This is how I found out:

I had finally decided to turn my life around. I figured, it's not too late to start acknowledging the potential my parents think I have. I can get good grades. I can get into a good university. Maybe I'll get a respectable boyfriend with respectable parents.

I came home after school and climbed the stairs to my father's study, my report card in one hand, my referral to attend peer tutoring three days a week in the other. I knew they were going to scorn my F's, like they do every time a report card comes home, and perhaps nod at the wisdom of my counselor for finally getting her act together and referring me to peer tutoring.

But I never gave it to them, because my father – in his old age – forgot to soundproof his door.

"Are you sure about that?" my mother was saying (or something along these lines. I don't have photographic memory, so sue me). "There must be some mistake. The lep," (I assume that's how you spell whatever it is), "would never allow this."

My father's voice was monotonous as usual. I could see with my mind's eye him leaning back in his chair, his fingers steepled in front of him. "She's not the first Koboi to get the better of the lep."

"Cunning is not genetic," mum said. "Just look at your child." Touché, I said to myself then. Now I say, that bitch.

"At the risk of sounding cliché," (here my father chuckled), "she's a chip off the old block."

My mother sighed. "Oh, poor Ettie," she said. I assume she was talking about my Aunt Loretta. Not a biological aunt (she's too cool to be related to either of my parents), but some good friend of my dad's from prehistoric times. "What did she ever do to deserve this?"

"She mingled in affairs that were none of her business," dad said. "I told her then, and I told her again and again after that, the people are not to be messed with. She did not listen, and now she's gotten herself and her nephew hospitalized. This is serious business. Nothing for an average woman. And believe me, she's always been just average."

Mum said very quietly, "What is she going to do when she gets out?"

"I insisted she and her nephew relocate to Fowl Manor. It's the least I could do. As much as I hate to admit it, I did lure her into this. In this sort of situation, though, safety in numbers is key. I wanted her here, under our protection. Who knows when Koboi's goons will strike again? And next time, they could kill her."

At this point I was thoroughly confused. What the hell were they talking about?

"How was this ever allowed to happen?" mum said. "I just want you to be careful."

"I am careful! I have always been careful. I can empty a bank in broad daylight, and I have been, ever since I was a teenager. I'm experienced. I know what I'm doing."

"I can think of too many times you would have died, if not for Holly."

My father sighed here. He was silent for a long time. During any other conversation, this is the point at which I would leave and go to my room to play video games, or perhaps mix another batch of nail polish (my mum never lets me get black. She says it increases chances of suicide). But not now.

"I was a child then, Minerva," my father said. "I needed the fairies."

I remember thinking, fairies? My father believes in fairies?

They stopped talking after that. I don't know if they heard me listening, or if they just decided to end it. But I only wished I got home earlier to hear the beginning of the conversation.

Whatever, I'm rambling. Bottom line: my father is an international criminal mastermind and believes in fairies.

And he lied to me. All my life. Here's one new block. Here's an apple who doesn't mind falling a bit further off than usual, a cracker who rolled away from the barrel.

My name is Artemis Fowl III, and I'm nothing like my father.