A/N: Just a fun little fic exploring the character of Major Butler (and yes, I know there's technically a"the" in front of his name, but w/e) and why, exactly, the Mafia never retaliated against the Fowls after losing a hostage and five million dollars.

Many people knew that Fowls and Butlers were paired for life, though far fewer knew why. If a Fowl was killed while a Butler was assigned to them, very, very rarely did the Butler take another contract. Usually, the Butler in question quietly disappeared, and many had obituaries show up in the local news within the months following the Fowl's death.

If a Butler died while guarding a Fowl, the Fowl would rarely take on another full-time bodyguard. The Fowl in question would usually quote something along the lines of "lifelong loyalty cannot be replaced." If they were going somewhere or doing something dangerous, however, it was not uncommon for a Fowl to hire a Butler for a short-term contract. The Fowl family rarely – if ever – employed bodyguards who were not Butlers.

When the Fowl Star sank in the cold, dark Russian waters, news spread of Artemis Fowl the First's presumed death when no one found his body, and of Major Butler's confirmed death, when the authorities had found his, battered, burned, drowned. Artemis Fowl was put on a Missing Person's list. Major Butler was put six feet underground.

A fact he was most displeased with when he woke up two weeks later with the rising of the next full moon.

Pine, his mind identified the smell around him. He felt the muscles of his forehead shift down into his customary frown and tried to open his eyes to see why the hell everything smelled like goddamn pine.

He blinked. He was sure he did, because he felt his eyelids move. Yet everything stayed dark. Blindness was not an option; the fact that he was thinking straight meant physical damage should have been dealt with.

It was well established in myth and history that lycanthropy gave one super-human speed. This extended to mental capacities. It therefore only took a handful of seconds for Major's mind to assess the situation and determine that he'd likely been put in a pine box, due to the pervasive smell, and it was sealed tight, hence the lack of light. Given that he also felt like death warmed up, he had likely died somehow, and some well-meaning citizen that had no idea what they were dealing with had given him a decent burial.

Which meant he had to get out of this damn box, and out of the ground he was under. His lungs may be strong, and his ability survive with limited breath exponentially better than a human's, but he could still suffocate. And repeating the cycle of "death – wait for the full moon to be revived – scrabble to get out with even less oxygen around – death" was not something he was keen on going through.

Still, no point rushing anything. Rushing. That…brought memories back. Sort of. Rushing sounded similar to Russia…where he was headed with his Principal before their ship got blown up. A feral snarl tore through the Major's throat as his eyes opened again. No one could see it, but the dark blue irises faded completely to black in that one instant, and his canine teeth grew disconcertingly long.

It was tempting to let the animal take over, to complete the shift. If he was awake, then it was the full moon. Shifting would be easy. And then he could get revenge on whoever had the audacity to bury him, to put him in a position to be buried, to have dared try and harm him or his charge…but above all things, he was a professional. And a mindless rampage would not necessarily be the best option at the moment.

Especially since he was still unsure if his charge had also been shoved into a pine box on the wrong side of the world from his home.

Well, that was unlikely. If Artemis Fowl had, in fact, died, Major doubted that his family would spare the expense of having his body flown home to Ireland to be laid to rest in a much more extravagant coffin than the plain, scratchy pine he himself had been put in.

Actually…Major reached out to feel the grain of the wood around him. If it was plain pine, then his will had been read. Simplest coffin available for burial, it would have read, unless my family specifies otherwise. The "specifies otherwise" would have meant a more solid coffin. Not to keep him in it, oh no, simply to let him know that there was less rush to get out, most likely because his charge was safe. Cremation was generally left for those of their family who had failed so completely that their charge was undeniably dead, and usually only those who were bonded at the birth of the Fowl they were to guard would need that surety. The loss of their charge usually led to the Butler dying of heartbreak. The loyalty and fellowship between a Butler and Fowl was undeniable, and if people thought plain old dogs got sad when their master died, well. Fowls and Butlers were paired for life, and that kind of loyalty came with a heavy price.

No Butler who had been bonded so fully to a human would be willing to continue to live if their failure had resulted in the loss of the Fowl. Heartbreak took them within the year in most cases, and rather than continual resuscitation, the rest of the family, no matter how widespread or whatever personal vendettas were being waged, would step in to ensure fire consumed the body before the next full moon.

But that was not the case at the moment, as this infernal pine box informed Major. While he had been thinking, he had also been listening, smelling, moving.

Not a lot of external sound, not a lot of scent, not a lot of space.

So definitely buried underground. And in Russia, that meant snow, and frozen earth. The full moon evidently had his blood singing enough and had him close enough to shifting that the cold didn't bother him. It would also mean his strength was up, which meant it was time to start digging.

Major wriggled until his hands were positioned above his shoulders, as though he was trying to do a bench press without any weights. The coffin wasn't quite deep enough for him to bend his legs, too, but oh well. With another growl, Major pushed up and to the side with all his considerable strength. It was hard, the earth on top of the coffin lid was heavy. But not yet hard-packed with time, and at the depth he was at, not quiet frozen solid. It took time, but eventually the coffin lid moved just enough that Major could smell and feel the dirt cascading into the box with him.

Not much longer after that, he could reach that same dirt, start pushing it aside. Start pulling himself up. He didn't notice the change in his hands, the shape of his fingers shifting to more spade-like paws as he got closer and closer to the surface where the moonlight filtered through the clouds. When he eventually pulled himself free of the clinging earth, though, and breathed his first breath of fresh, wintry air after however long he'd been underground, it took everything in him not to throw back his head and howl.

He took another deep breath and closed his eyes to center himself. Forced his shoulders back to human form out of the crouch they'd slunk into, halfway shifted. Rolled his neck to stretch tendons and joints. Someone had put him here. Not here specifically, in this forest of headstones. But here, assumed dead, after attacking his charge. That would not do. Major Butler opened his eyes and felt his lips peel back in what was the very definition of a wolfish grin. He would find them, and he would make. Them. Pay.

Preparation took time, of course. Such things always did. A few nights of heavy eating to build up his strength again – resurrection really took a lot out of a lycan – and a few days of recon and resupply – a man covered in dirt and wearing tattered clothes had a much harder time getting information than one who seemed to be in full possession of his faculties – meant it was nearly a week before Major was able to touch base with anyone at all to get some answers.

"The Fowl Residence," a deep voice growled over the tiny speaker in the hotel handset. Someone not in the know would assume it was due only to size of the man speaking, and the poor quality of the phone line. Someone in the know could identify it as a warning that the speaker was on high alert and more than willing to defend to the death if needed.

"It's me, Major," Major said. Small talk and family greetings were all well and good, but when there was work to be done, that took priority.

"Ah, good. I was expecting you to call a couple days ago. What took so long?"

"Do you have any idea how hard it is to get any kind of service in the boondocks of Russia? I'm not even supposed to be where I am." Major glanced a little guilty at the blonde woman hogtied to the only chair in the room. While he could do with any old phone line, he did enjoy some creature comforts like interior heat and decent towels. The one hotel in Murmansk set up for business travelers had been fully booked, and the prime suite by this traveling executive, here to assess worker conditions. Major could have told her to stay home. It was Murmansk. Worker conditions were shit.

"Fair enough. Rough update: things are not good. Mr. Fowl is still not found. Mrs. Fowl is not handling it well, and Master Fowl is –"

"I don't give a damn about the missus and boy. The boy's your responsibility, and we both know you can handle it well enough, and the missus, well. I suppose she's arguably both our responsibilities, but your sister should be there still, she can take that on. I just need to know about my charge."

Major couldn't see it, but Butler nodded. "Of course. Small problem with that. No one knows anything. Mafia, obviously, for the missile, but that's a hell of an organization to sift through to find out the specifics. And no clue where Mr. Fowl wound up. If a citizen found him, a hospital probably. Though since every news outlet in the world is tracking this somehow, if that was the case, he'd be identified by now. Which means it's probably the Mafia again."

"You did work in Russia before your charge. Any intel?"

"I'll email you my contacts, though I'm not sure how helpful they'll be. I've already reached out to them, but maybe you can get some more information out of them in person. I assume you're staying there until we have something?"

Major grunted in agreement. "Of course. You'll keep in touch if you get anything on your end?"

"Of course. I expect the same from you. I'll get Yuri – one of my contacts – to get you set up with some credentials, safe house, the works."

"Email me your personal number, too. I'll get myself hooked up with one and be in touch."

"Alright. Oh, and Uncle? Happy hunting."

"Thanks," Major growled just before the connection went dead.

He turned to the other occupant in the room, staring at him wide-eyed over the gag made of her own pantyhose and started talking to her in rudimentary Russian.

"Now then. I have to leave. Tell anyone I was here, and I will hunt you down and make you regret ever learning to speak at all. Clear?"

The frantic nodding was not nearly as comforting as the subtle scent of fear and lack of scent of treachery. The waning of the moon made it hard to focus in on his wolf-like senses, but lycanthropy ran strong in his blood, and the stress of the situation made it a hell of a lot easier to tap into those abilities.

"Good. I'm going to untie you," Major said, moving behind her to do so. First the ankles, then the arms. The gag was last, and the pantyhose was quickly wrapped around the woman's throat after he removed it from her mouth. It was decent quality, too, and didn't tear or even get a run as she scrabbled at it while losing consciousness. No point leaving her awake to see what direction he went.

When she went still, Major put her carefully on the bed, and gently tucked the blankets up around her shoulders. A quickly jotted note written on the back of her hand – remember, tell no one – and he was on his way, taking the fire escape outside the window, and heading off into the snow to find somewhere with a computer to access his email.

The next two years were absolute hell.

Major tracked down whatever Mafia personnel he could find and questioned them when he could, which was far less often than he would have liked. Making waves would have been a problem, and not an easy one to solve. It was hard though, each month as the moon grew full in the sky and made the wolf within him snarl and pace, to remind himself of that.

But being borderline immortal meant that he was incredibly patient. He could wait. And if a few Mafia enforcers went missing, who'd notice? Infighting, the occasional raid, other criminal organizations cutting in; there were a thousand reasons a handful of Mafia went missing each month.

At least sometimes his attacks could be targeted. His nephew would send snippets of information in terse, borderline rude emails. Major didn't mind. Not many in their family or profession would. The few short lines were all that was needed in most cases, a name, an address. Evidently young Artemis Fowl the Second was still searching for his father, and the boy's bodyguard would send whatever information might be useful to Major's hunt over.

Major doubted if Artemis the Second knew that his bodyguard was doing so. The lycanthropic nature of his most steadfast employee likely hadn't been revealed to him yet. It usually wasn't until the Fowl reached age of majority. Telling a child usually had one of two outcomes: either they'd blurt it out at the first possible opportunity, alerting the wrong person to the secret, or they'd be so terrified of their guard they wouldn't be able to function.

There had been some concern in the family when Domovoi and Juliet's parents had been killed, in that Juliet, being a young werewolf herself, might not always be able to control her transformations, and being in close quarters to the Fowl boy might therefore cause problems. Domovoi had proven that a false concern. His strength of will was incredible, and as Alpha of the little pack at Fowl Manor, he could enforce that will on his sister. If memory served, there had only been two instances in the past twelve years where Juliet had transformed with any kind of risk apparent.

Of course, it had galled Major a little to be technically under the command of his nephew, a pup still to him, two and a half decades younger than himself, in the weeks that he was staying at the Manor before the trip on the Fowl Star. But Domovoi hadn't been the youngest graduate of Madam Ko's school for nothing. Major may have had years of experience on him, but Dom was unquestionably talented.

Though, perhaps, at the moment, a trifle moon-mad.

Major Butler re-read the email he'd received the previous night, much longer than the others, and making much less sense.

Murmansk, Nikodim submarine. 14th at 00:00.

Main target: Mikhael Vassikin

We'll be on the opposite ridge with some underworld allies, like you've never seen, heard of, or smelled. Believe it or not, mythology is alive and well in the modern world, and while it's created a handful of problems, it's useful for some solutions.

On the marked ridge we're dropping a case and a flare. Ignore the scent of the case and who dropped it and try and wait for the target, if you can identify him. Mid-level enforcer, but he'll lead you to who you want. I'll handle the Principals.

Keep me posted with how you do; I'm rather invested in the outcome now.

Happy hunting.

D.B.

PS: If you miss the target, you might be able to find him at Lenin Prospekt.

The attachment was indeed marked, and while Major couldn't say he particularly cared to spend time waiting in ambush that close to that much radiation, revenge was a hell of a motivator. So was temptation to follow the scent of whoever dropped the case. Cryptic messages were not his idea of a fun puzzle, and while Major wanted desperately to figure out what exactly his nephew meant by "Prinicpals," plural, and these elusive underworld contacts, he also wanted to finish this business, preferably in a way that would release some of the building tension in his muscles.

Denying the shift for too long was never good, and it had been months for Major. The magical residue at the Manor might help the Butlers in residence avoid it for longer, or at least be able to shift at will back to human form as needed if they did transform, but being stuck in Russia with the perpetual twilight had been wrecking havoc for Major's mental focus. The handful of times he'd allowed himself to run wild with a nearby – subjectively speaking – wolf pack hadn't quite relaxed him as much as he'd hoped.

So, with the promise of a target and a hunt on the horizon, Major gathered his things and went to sit in for stakeout.

Whatever the hell Domovoi was on about soon became apparent. The strangest smell had met Major at the case drop point, something like earth and growing things and a strangeness that made him think of the full moon and faint singing. But finding out what that was was not the most important part of tonight's entertainment.

Ignoring the strange scent on the breeze, Major settled in behind a loose outcropping of rock and snow and ice. His fur-lined greatcoat made sitting in the snow almost bearable; the dark of the moon meant his own ability to keep himself warm was limited. Nevertheless, despite the cold, he stripped off his gloves to focus binoculars on the pinpoints of orange light in the snow around the bay. Nearly a hundred. Damn.

Trying to find the singular named target his nephew had identified in that mess would be a problem. Not insurmountable, but would require some thought…his planning was soon cut short, and Major imagined that the hiss of a hundred cigarette butts being extinguished at once could be heard even without his enhanced senses. He turned the binoculars to the submarine at the center of the bay, surrounded on all sides by the now-invisible Mafia enforcers. Something was going to happen.

On cue, two men popped up in the center of the submarine tower, one chattering into a phone, the other with a bag over his head. Puzzle pieces began clicking together in Major's mind, so he was roughly prepared when the hood was yanked off and his erstwhile charge's head rolled forward.

Major didn't hear himself snarl, but the arctic fox a hundred meters away did, and immediately dug deeper into her burrow as a wave of primal fear reached her in some deep instinctual part of her mind.

"What the hell is that boy playing at?" Major hissed, watching the blood spray from his charge's torso. He wasn't sure which boy he was referring to; the Fowl kid, who undoubtedly hatched this plan, or his nephew, who undoubtedly fired the shot.

It took a considerable force of will not to go charging into the snow before him and down the incline to follow his Principal into the waters of the bay. If he allowed himself, and dug deep, he could transform here and now, moon or no moon. The full power of an angry lycan would make short work of the Mafia enforcers down below, and until Artemis Fowl the First was safe or dead Major still considered himself bound by contract. The scarring on the Irishman's face had the werewolf trembling already, but seeing him shot and thrown into what was little more than icy, liquid radiation nearly had his considerable control snapping.

But Domovoi had told him to wait. And while Major's years of experience and everyone's current geographical location meant Major wasn't bound by the werewolf family's hierarchy, his nephew was still a damned good bodyguard. If he said he'd handle the Principals, he would.

The fuse tied to the nearby case lit with some remote charge and the scent of a hundred men surging forward reached Major with the breeze a moment later. He couldn't stop the grin, and prepared to listen carefully to identify which of the incoming targets was Mister Vassikin.

Major silently thanked whatever god governed lycans, those hell-bent on revenge, and old soldiers. The timing of the ransom drop had been perfect; the night of the dark moon to hide the Mafia enforcers meant that now, after tracking those he needed to, getting the information he needed out of them, and giving himself some time for stakeout and preparation, it was the full moon, and Major was ready to go.

He checked his equipment one last time, made sure no further messages had come through from his nephew. The last had just said that Artemis the First was being taken care of and flown to Helsinki, where Dom had assured Major that vigilant security would be in place. Major didn't ask any more after that; if Domovoi was reassuring him on the matter of Major's Principal, that meant Major was free to handle this end of the business.

Right on time, the menidzher of the local Mafia pulled up in his souped-up four-wheeler. Britva. The man who had authorized the shooting of the Fowl Star, the man who had tried to kill Major's charge. Who had managed to kill Major, but really, that was a minor inconvenience, and hardly worth mentioning.

Major watched as Britva went into his safehouse, watched as four enforcers followed him in. There would already be another sixteen in residence. Twenty people between Major and his target.

Twenty armed, dangerous, murderous people between Major and his target.

Twenty armed, dangerous, murderous people between a full powered, stubborn, experienced werewolf and his target.

This would be bloody.

And it was. Pre-planted mines and grenades started things off, taking out the cars in the garage and blowing up the underground passage used for emergency escapes. The few Mafia who had been positioned near those areas had quick, relatively painless deaths.

Those that tried to fight Major had a much worse time of things. He went in guns blazing, using all the benefit of years of experience and his enhanced reflexes and senses to take carefully targeted shots as his adversaries sent round after round towards him. A few hit. Honestly, more than a few. But none hit his heart, lungs, or arteries. And none were silver. With the full moon shining down through the clouds, the copper scent of blood in his nose, the familiar kick of a pistol against his hand, Major felt untouchable.

By the time he'd made it to the second floor, by his estimation, just over half of the Mafia men were dead on the carpet behind him.

By the time he'd made it to the one door left on its hinges at the end of the hall, everyone but Britva was dead.

Major stalked down the hallway. He wasn't quiet. Not only was there no point to it, but the moon and bloodlust had gotten to him, and his steps were heavy with the weight of fur and changed bone structure. He'd prevented himself from changing fully, still needing the use of his hands, but God damn was it hard to keep himself in check.

His ears twitched, not yet fully those of a wolf but good enough for what he was listening for, as he heard the muffled click of a magazine being loaded. He hunkered down, grabbed a nearby piece of what was once a steel bedframe as a shield. Snarled as a volley of bullets from a machine gun game tearing out of the room, a few rounds punching through the steel in front of him and hitting flesh. But as soon as the rapid fire barrage ended, he was up, loping down the hall with all the considerable speed he could put on, injuries forgotten.

He came through the door as a blur and ripped the rifle from Britva's hands, launching the Mafia man against the far wall with a well-placed kick to the ribcage. Major carefully kept himself to the shadows, not quite trusting himself to stay in control when faced with his years-long enemy if he moved out into the full moonlight shining through the window frame.

Britva coughed and pushed himself up onto his elbows.

"Who the fuck are you?" he demanded in harsh Russian.

"Ah ah," Major replied, letting the sound of his pistol being cocked fill the room, "none of that now, please. Leave the gun under the desk, and stand up slowly."

Britva looked momentarily worried. He'd heard the gunshots, the screams, the ominous quiet. He stood up slowly, keeping one hand pressed against his ribs. Major knew he had a small pistol there as well. He could smell it. He didn't much care.

"Alright, I'm standing. Now who the fuck are you?"

Major grinned. The flash of teeth was white against the shadows of the room. He saw Briva's frown, knew what he was seeing. Major relished in the scent of fear as the Mafia man's mind tagged something as being wrong with the grin, but not yet wrong enough to make a solid identification of what it was specifically. "I'm the person who was hired to protect Artemis Fowl the First on his trip to Russia on the Fowl Star two years ago."

Britva laughed incredulously. "What? Bullshit. You think you can scare me with that name, now that Fowl's been found? Bullshit. Everyone knows the man's guard died. And even if you were him, you did a shit job of protecting him, cause it took two years for you to find him after losing him!"

"Ah, see, I am that guard, and if I wasn't I would have no reason to pretend to be, so let that sink in. And I'm not best pleased about the attack on me or my charge, or that you've kept him hidden for two years. Now, if you grovel and beg and apologize, I might kill you quickly and painlessly. On the other hand, if you fire that pistol, or piss me off more…well. You're a clever man. You figure it out."

Britva laughed again. "You're joking, right? You don't get to my position in this organization without having a few tricks of your sleeve for a fight. You think you can beat me? I can see blood on your clothes from here, and your gait's wrong. Busted ankle, maybe? Few too many shots to the legs? Quite frankly, I'm impressed you're still walking. Now, if you grovel and beg and apologize, I might let you have a relatively quick death. What are your thoughts on that?"

"That you're an idiot."

"You dare!" Britva hissed, reeling back. "Fine, let's say you are the Fowl's bodyguard, I can't think of anyone cocky enough to pretend otherwise. You think you can come in here, attack my men, attack me, and walk away? Look at you! I can hear that harshness of pain in your voice! With your injuries you won't even make it back out the door!"

"Maybe. Maybe not. But that doesn't mean I'm going to let you get off free with your attack on us."

While the two had been talking, they had been circling. Britva moved to try and get a shot at the enemy in his room, moving so his own back was to the window. Major had mimicked the movements, circling away.

"But I'm the idiot. When you're the one wounded, barely able to walk upright, and still the Fowl's loyal dog to the end," Britva spat.

There was a beat of silence before Major threw back his head and laughed. It was the kind of sound that made cats arch and hiss, that made rabbits run for their warrens, that made the hairs on a man's neck stand straight up. When he'd finished, Major allowed himself, finally allowed himself, to step into the pale light.

He revelled in the fear he saw flicker into Britva's eyes, smelled rolling off him, knowing why. He felt the change in his center of gravity as his bones lengthened. Felt his senses improve as his nose and ears moved, changed, grew long and sharp. Felt his wounds start healing, felt his tail brush the floor as the moonlight worked its magic on him.

"You have no idea," Major rumbled out through a grin that was all teeth.

Britva moved fast, bringing his small pistol up, white showing all around his eyes, stumbling backward against the windowsill.

Major moved faster.

The screaming stopped eventually, and a satisfactory howl echoed into the night.

In a Helsinki hospital room, Artemis Fowl the First was sitting up with his wife perched on the edge of the bed near his hip and his son sitting in the room's only chair. They had just finished telling him that no, Major hadn't survived, his body had been found the day after the Fowl Star sank. Artemis the First looked at the other two people in the room, both standing near the door at casual but attentive positions after having convinced the family that they were more than capable of protecting the Fowls from any Mafia retribution.

"But Butler has informed me that he knows someone who will ensure that revenge from the Mafia will not occur," Artemis the Second informed his father, "and that Major's wishes and remains were seen to as Major had specified in his will."

"You're sure?" Artemis Senior confirmed.

"Completely," his son's famously loyal bodyguard replied, voice a low growl vicious certainty.

Artemis glanced up over his family's head, and couldn't quite suppress a shudder as he saw, for the briefest instant as the two Butlers flashed predatory grins, two sets of dark blue irises fade completely to black, and two sets of canine teeth grow disconcertingly long.

A/N: Well that was fun to write. Might write more with this AU, because the potential is enormous. Anyways! Would love to hear your thoughts on this! And, since it's coming up in a week or so, Happy Halloween!