Opal sat in the dark grey interrogation room, looking at her cut nails intently. Holly upon hearing the identity of the mudboy had practically teleported to Opal for answers. She sat at the other side of the metal table, facing Opal.
"Why did you have Artemis Fowl as one of your experimentees?" Holly asked, calm and professional on the outside but screaming with anger and frustration in her brain.
Opal just looked at Holly's hazel eyes and smirked, returning her gaze to her nails.
"Can you answer me?" Holly pressed, a dark gleam entered Opal's eyes.
"He was a partially gifted human, was he not?" The dark haired woman purred, her chocolate brown eyes twinkling.
"Was?" Holly asked, she had actually gotten information! Other interrogators had tried, but failed.
"Do you not see him now? His brilliant mind seems to have taken a holiday." Opal said, staring at Holly, nails forgotten.
"Holiday? Is that what you call experimentation?' Holly said.
"It seems to have taken just that, but it has not. It is there."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Short, may I ask why you have taken such an interest in the boy? Surely you must have been holding his dead corpse by now, taken your history with him."
"First I need answers."
"Has he spoken of the Ravens?" Holly looked quizzingly at the pixie genius.
"The what?"
"Ah, he has not. I will not answer any following questions until he does." And with that Opal once again looked at her nails.
Holly tried many tactics to get her to talk, with in LEP protocols of course, but none making the genius speak.
She stood up, leaving behind the pixie.
….
He sat, his legs swinging-ing up and down. He was in a soft white room, clean. Different from his last room, cold biting metal it was.
He could see that they had a camera here, why he wonders? What do they need of him? Their friends already looked at everything he has.
Drawing.
That's what he feels like doing.
Crayons.
They're good. Consist mainly of 18:1 (6%), 20:1 (35%) and 22:1 (7%) fatty acids linked to 20:1 (22%), 22:1 (21%) and 24:1 (4%) fatty alcohols.
Oh chemistry, it's good.
But he doesn't have any, how about a poem?
"Mr. Man, Tis his name, he's the one who spilled the oil can that made me lame." He composed, he didn't say it though.
Quiet.
Mommy Raven would say.
Quiet.
Bones Ravens would say as they poured lava into his veins.
Quiet.
They others would say in his ears from the inside out.
Inside out….
He shivered, pulling up his legs and putting his skinny arms around them.
Organs spilling their contents on the floor, ribs waving hello to him, the back of a man's eyes in his inverted skull.
He put his head down, curling into himself.
He didn't like that Raven. He hurt him, like Butlar did a few times. He didn't like it.
'You'll like it.' The man used to purr. He didn't like it.
Crimson fluid flowing out of his evil mouth, dreadful black eyes staring at the hand in his chest. His mouth agape with screams as he was twisted inside and outside. Ah, that he did like.
They say that those who danced where thought mad by those who could not hear the music, there IS NO MUSIC!
ONLY SOUL WRENCHING MADNESS!
The dark souls of the damned escaping to hell, from him. Their filthy, raven eyes staring at him.
Enchanted by the eyes of the dead.
Oh look at that one, enchanted so!
The one who had lost his head.
Do you listen to him crow?
The poem.
A clang like the thunder made his head go from up in the stormy clouds falling back to earth.
The woman raven-dove came in and looked at him. He uncurled from the position he had grown to know so well and sat cross legged.
The poem that cannot be told to anyone but God himself for fear of the end of the world.
The poem recited at the apocalypse by the mad and the damned.
The poem known by all and heard by the mad. The poem feared by demons and whispered by angels.
The poem is known by all, and told by him.
Hush.
It is not time for that.
He wants crayons.
(Guys, if you're scared by this, you are not the only ones. I freak myself out too. WHAT IS IN MY MIND, GUYS!? All the poems are made by me and the wax info from a website. Once again, MY POEMS)
