Bonus! : Potatoes - DAY 1: Parents - DAY 2: Roaring 20s - DAY 3: Blindfold - DAY 4: Summer Afternoons - DAY 5: World War 2 - DAY 6: Obsession - DAY 7: Generations

Artemis Sharp Von Hohenburg– Dalek's youngest son – born 1925 – 14 y/o when war breaks out (1939), tries to join up ? – looks like Asa Butterfield – passes out the illustrated london news

"Daddy! Mommy! Get up, mommy! We need you! Mommy! Daddy! Help! No! Please, no!" The men ignored Alek, slow and injured as he was. The gun aimed at his children. Only two? Where was the third? Where was his youngest son? Alek prayed that he had escaped and not been the very first of their victims.

Two shots rang out.

Alek closed his eyes for the last time, glad that the next shot was for him.

Artemis woke up, covered in sweat even as he felt frozen to his core. He remained there, frozen in fear for a split second before he began to gasp for air like a fish out of water.

He threw his thin, moth-eaten blanket off and sat on the edge of his cot, breathing deeply, deeply, deeply. He used to cry uncontrollably after every one of these episodes, these nightmares that his father must have sent him from beyond the grave, or wherever they put him. But he had slowly learned to quell that habit thanks to the constant taunting by the other orphans. Now he stared, dead-eyed, into the night until the haunting thoughts had hidden in the depths of his mind once more.

Light began to seep in though the dirty windows of the London orphanage, and 14 year old Artemis Sharp Von Hohenburg needed to get going. He dressed quickly, throwing on his favorite jacket – a military surplus item that he had picked out from the donations bin on his birthday – and combing out his red-brown, ear-length hair with his fingers. He moved it to cover his eyes, which were perhaps his most striking feature: piercingly bright blue and containing so much sadness that it was hard for people to hold his gaze…hence, grabbing a soot-stained pageboy hat to further obscure them.

He moved back to his cot and poked the furry creature curled on his pillow. The perspicacious beastie, which had of course been awake as long as he had, fixed him with a soulful gaze and reluctantly moved to climb onto the boy's shoulder. Artemis scratched its scraggly chin, saying, "Morning, Bovril. Time to stretch your wee old limbs."

The boy slipped out the back door of the orphanage with Bovril safe in his jacket, for it was a blustery day, the first day of September if he remembered rightly. He made his way down the street to the paper factory, dodging the foot and creature traffic that was already mounting in the growing daylight. His stack of newspapers to deliver was waiting for him on the steps of the Illustrated London News building, and he scooped it up without breaking stride. He glanced down to break the twine that held the bundle together and saw a picture of the Prime Minister apparently walking to his personal walker and tipping his hat to an invisible driver. Immediately, Artemis began to throw the papers, one by one, onto the front steps of every building he passed.

The boy enjoyed this job. He didn't have to yell out the headlines he hawked, as he'd seen many other boys do, because the pictures spoke for themselves. And many times, he could actually understand what was going on in the world through the illustrations provided in his merchandise. His parents had of course taught him the fundamentals of reading, but without practice and proper schooling this skill had quickly deteriorated until it was nothing more than a ghost of what could have been. Just like everything else in his life had faded into a drab grey fabric of woven 'what if's. He was shaken out of his self-pity by a strangled cry behind him. He spun around, expecting to see a person being assaulted by a thief or something to that extent. Instead, his eyes were met by a woman, staring in horror at the paper – his paper – she clutched in her hands.

His brows furrowed as he watched her throw up her hands in despair and flee into the house, calling out the names of boys who were most likely her sons. The papers in his hands came up to his face seemingly of their own accord, and the loris' head popped out of the top of his jacket to appraise the paper with him.

The picture of the Prime Minister was the same he'd appraised earlier, and nothing seemed to be amiss – until his eyes fell upon the caption. He recognized at least one word: WAR!

"'This country is at war with Germany,' announces the Prime Minister," read the beastie. Of course old Bovril would remember how to read the letters on the page just now. It was the longest sentence the creature had said in a very long time.

Artemis stood there in shock, staring at the page.

He dropped his remaining papers and began to run to the nearest beastie-powered trolley stop, where one such trolley was loading passengers, headed for the airfield just outside of London. The crowds of people and fabricated animals were so thick now that he had to shove a few people to get through them, which happened to give him a nice opportunity to pick their pockets while they were distracted. Thus attaining necessary transportation fees, he boarded the trolley with no problem. It was so packed that he had to stand up in front of an old lady who smelled of rotten cheese, but he could not have cared less.

He was on his way to the recruiting station, and they had to let him in. He was young, but he was tall. And he was a fast learner. He was sure he could learn how to read in no time if someone were willing to teach him. Plus he had Bovril to help him. Bovril! Would they even let him keep the creature? A sudden wave of panic hit him at the thought of losing his only friend, his only family member, the last physical link to his parents he had. He resolved to hide and keep the loris at all costs.

They had to let him in. Germans killed his family. He was reminded of the screams of his mother and father and sister and brother as they were slaughtered, while he and Bovril had hidden in their secret cupboard, wide-eyed and shaking. He was reminded of running across cold fields for miles and miles with only the loris for comfort. He was reminded of sobbing for what seemed like years on the dusty country road he finally collapsed on.

Bovril wiped away the solitary tear than ran down Artemis' cheek. He stroked the creature absentmindedly and clenched his jaw tight.

They had to let him in. Germans had murdered his family. It was time for him to murder them.

This is a continuation of my other fic, "Tragedy and a Blindfold." (No, I don't know how to put that link here.)

Anyway. I imagine Artemis looking a bit like Asa Butterfield. He was five when his family was killed, and now he wants to join the air force or at least some faction of the U.K.'s military so he can kill Germans and get even. (Oh Artemis, if only it was human nature to be so easily satiated, if only it were the way of life that everything should go according to plan.)

And this was written for Dalek Week – "WW2."