Chappie Mk II
"...High Com...will not...for this."
Humm? Whaaaa?
"They...need not...know."
They sound like...males. I hate males. I hate my family. I hate everyone but my hunters...I should castrate Zeus.
"You...responsible...this"
The lithe 13-year-old couldn't remain out of this conversation for much longer, indecisively peeking an eye to find herself in a damp, dusty Paris green room with no windows, further dampened by the males occupying the anti-nature enclosure.
The pigs haven't noticed her advances, taking the opportunity to check reflexes by slight twitching for a quick dispatch of her favorite gender. Satisfied, Artemis leaped out of bed hoping to overpower her captors in unarmed combat, perhaps removing a few males from the male population.
She didn't expect the males to fight back. The one in a white coat easily fell prey to the predator, but the other, younger one posed himself ready for a fight. Light on her feet, she took full advantage of her faster frame, going for a quick strike to the ribs for a classic set-up move. He pushed forward into her guard, swinging her around until he had her pinned to the ground with a knee on her upper spine.
"Get off me, you chauvinistic scum!" Artemis growled, squirming from her less than advantageous position.
"No?" the male asked, unsure how to deal with the girl he saved.
Then the headaches hit her. Artemis realized her mind wasn't running at full capability, as if someone, or something, had placed restrictions on her divinity. So many ways she could've escaped, yet so many ways were all blocked by the same restriction. Her captor let loose the pressure when he saw she was still suffering from her earlier dip in the drink, clutching holding her head for her life's dependence.
Artemis scrambled away from the male, internally scared he might take advantage of her in this pathetic state. She blinked away the tears, refusing to believe this is the life she has to live—a mere slave under the command of the gender she hates with a passion, away from any source of nature in his concrete jungle of the sounds from the street served her right.
In anger, the former goddess attacked the wall with renewed vigor, chipping away at the stone bit by bit until her fists were raw from needlessly attacking an intimate object. Realizing this was going nowhere, she let the waterworks run without restriction, falling to her knees at the damaged and painted wall, wishing this was a bad dream she could wake up from.
All this time, the male had been standing there not sure what to do. On one hand, he had to commemorate her amazing durability and skill in unarmed combat, causing him to doubt his skills taught by multiple nobles from around the mighty British Empire. On the other, he couldn't help but notice how emotionally spent she was from whatever she'd gone through before he got his hands on her.
With nothing else to do until supper, the male slowly approached the sob-infested child, bring her close to him in a hug of support—not necessarily for her comfort, yet not entirely for his confusion. She eventually cried herself to sleep.
"That girl can hit hard! What did we do this time?" the doctor asked, gently rubbing his swollen face.
"I have no clue, though that was a bit extreme for a victim of parental abuse to have triggered that," the man replied, picking the girl up to put her back in the comfort of a bed, "How much do I owe you for damages and cleaning?"
"Percy, you have nothing to pay for if you can tell me how you know she is a victim of child abuse."
Samuel kissed her forehead, "Would a child attack a person for no reason after waking up?"
"No sane young person would dare try and attack a larger person!"
"Exactly. Something tells me this one never had a normal childhood."
The little girl snatched the 16-year-old's right hand bringing it close to her chest like a long-lost plushie. Samuel blushed at quick affection the girl did, unsure what to do in predicaments like this. Doctor Fred shot him a look of mischievous or betrayal—either or displayed by his body in counter to his facial expression.
"She seems to like you," the doc said with implications of bitterness.
"Fred, please stop badgering."
"Aw, why not? Is someone afraid of little Arty?"
"Arty, is that her name? You know this girl?"
"Ah-no! I-I only know her as one of my patient's relatives, nothing more!" Doctor Foívos sputtered, attempting to change the topic, "Why would you look at the time! I have a specialist appointment in a quarter-hour across the city!"
Samuel narrowed his eyes at his leaving acquaintance, "Alright...keep your secrets."
Arty, tossed her blanket overboard, a sigh coming from the confused commander who was still trapped in the powerhouse's grip.
(line break)
"Zoë? What happened to you?"
"Milady, howest thine leave thou companionships like soest?"
Zoë looked up towards her mistress, a thin strip of red leaking from the corner of her mouth. Mud caked the once imposing huntress from head to toe, bits jagged metal tearing the uniform into something barely decent. The previously unbreakable silver blessed bow fractured and charred—some parts still burning.
As the last hunter who held on longer than the rest due to her heritage, death would still catch her sooner or later—the inescapable final where dusk always comes. Endurance is one thing, but eternal living is another matter entirely.
Artemis knelt to treat her loyal quasi-sister in arms, hopeful she could reverse the damage before it was too late, "Zoë, tell me what happened."
"Thouest forsaken thine!" the dying hunter wheezed, the light slowly fading from the natural caring but cold eyes.
"I would never leave you no matter what happens."
Zoë's spirit slipped away in her mistress' arms, her long-time friend, dead from the crossfire of male disagreement. The proud huntress would never let her tears dress a fallen hunter. There would be a time for that later.
Across the overturned ground, many of her fallen hunters lay slain. Some are deeply engulfed by the mud, others rest in pieces around artificial craters. Clouds of toxic smoke billowed in the polluted backgrounds, endlessly burning as it spread. In a world turned monochrome by years of abuse, Artemis felt as if her punishment would not only be temporary but enduring for time to come.
Suddenly, a male voice addressed her from behind.
"You see what this has become?" He shook the mud from his boots and surveyed the battlefield, "A true nightmare to behold. It piques the mind if you can prevent this with your ability of foresight."
She turned to face the mysterious pig, salvaging a dull knife from her last friend.
Cloaked in heavy cloth drenched in rain, blood, and mud. The masked man comfortably lifted his rifle down low in the ready position. Artemis noticed the man was not focused on her, but the landscape around her. This uneased her, knowing she was at a disadvantage in a world where this man has every advantage except for his gender—the possibility of escaping was very improbable.
"It doesn't have to be this way," he said cryptically.
"What do you mean by that?" Artemis retorted, warily eyeing the end of the gun.
"I mean it didn't have to be this way. It never should have been this way. It never had to come to, to this!
Years upon years of common men, united under a flag fighting for scraps and squabbling over things that don't concern them. Years of pushing one another in vain. Years of dying without justice or cause for what, what they believed in? No!
I tell you, years of suffering for those who wish not to fight yet are the prime targets in this war. For those who refuse to fight for the ones responsible." He hung his head low, grip slacking on the faded stock.
"It's been years and years," he said dishearteningly, "And I've fought through them all. The year of the excitement. The year of reality. The year of blood. The year of mud. The year of exhaustion."
"W-what do you want?" Artemis quivered.
"Alas, you are yet another victim," he said as he straightened his back, readjusting his aim once again.
"If you want to fight, then fight already!"
The man shifted his gaze towards the girl, looked at his rifle, then back to her, "It would be sooo easy to end it all—to end you! But alas, I have forgotten what I was fighting for. I've forgotten why I hate you."
He turned around disregarding the angsty teen, carefully traversing the tossed earth towards the earthworks from which he came from; he stopped short of a ditch.
"Be careful when you have to make decisions." He bitterly remarked, disappearing into a labyrinth of trenches.
(Line Break)
Artemis awoke shaking to the chill of a July afternoon, clutching something that kept her warm.
It was a male. A male that was watching over her. The same one that had hugged her, appeared in her dream and was looking right into her eyes.
Oh, those sterling silver spotlights much like her own that shone through the steel mask he had worn.
How much it would satisfy her to punch them dark—blind even if that is an option.
"So, you're finally awake," the male said, "Could you let go of my arm? I prefer to keep my arm well circulated in the event of a surprise attack."
She gingerly glanced down, finding his relatively large right hand held way too close from her comfort. Artemis internally cursed her body for betraying her in a time of weakness. Naturally, a flying fist flew from the clutched arm, only to miss as he pulled himself away from the bed, Artemis's hug-toy included.
"My head included..." he muttered.
"W-what do you want?" Artemis quivered, tracking the man as she scooted away from him on the bed.
"I could ask you the same thing, Arty."
"That's not my name!" She lunged for the male again, falling into his catching grace before the floor.
"Oh really? According to Doctor Fred, that's what you're called."
"No, it isn't!" Arty struggled in his chains, kicking about like a child on a tantrum because they didn't get their cookies.
"Then what is your name?"
"I-It's...well...um..."
"Would a hot meal suffice your distrait tendencies?"
"No! I don't need a male's help!"
"Right then, I'll just leave ya to the mercy of this daunt city when most dodgers are out for spangle or ripe birds.
The man let go of Arty, prepping for another evening journey through the routes of London. While patting himself down for anything he may've forgotten, a slim brass pen fell from an inner pocket, bouncing around the floors with a distinctive metallic echo. Realizing this might have some sort of value to the male, Arty snatched the pen mid-tumble, retreating to another corner of the room.
"Hey! I value that!"
Her suspicions were confirmed when he carefully approached the corner. Realizing she had an advantage, she tucked it behind her with an ultimatum in mind. If her vision was correct, this was her caretaker—her guardian in more formal terms—for her short time in the dust ball. This would be a huge risk in her life.
"I'll give it back if you take me with you," she offered.
"I was going to do that anyway!" Grudgingly, she handed the patinated utensil back to the male who stuffed it into a secure breast pocket, probably wondering why it wasn't there, "You like bike rides?"
"What's that?"