Title: Killer Instinct

Author: Skye Firebane

Rating: Still PG-13.

Chapter Summary: Artemis Junior interrogates a mafia hit man and uncharacteristically loses his cool – the reason a mystery at the moment. Meanwhile, Caitlin Woodgrove, sociopath, barmaid and ex-second-rate assassin is hired by a tutor…?

Comments: The following chapter is a pathetic attempt at dry humour. The key words being 'pathetic' and 'attempt', mind you. Now, warnings… a go at a slightly different writing style, a few expletives, mild violence (only one scene of 'real' gore)… That's about it. Thankyou for all those who reviewed, and to animefanatic07: Yes, it is gory, but I didn't *really* see fit to classify it as R – the violence will probably be on a less grand scale. And Artemis II, in the second chapter, is in South America. Many of these chapters are written on simultaneous timelines; however, most are not.

Anyway, thanks again to the reviewers; however some more steroids for the ego would be appreciated greatly. Bon appetit.

Chapter Three: The Butler Did It

The room was bright.

Of course, one would expect it to be that way seeing as though it was lit with 40 high voltage, high wattage halogen globes. Have you ever seen a police movie in which the 'bad cop' shines a bright light into a perpetrator's eyes? Well, Artemis Fowl the Second had seen several. And, with his usual gusto, made a much larger thing out of it. Literally.

The room was named the 'Interrogation Room', although the henchmen, goons and various other employees of the Fowl Cartel chose to aptly refer to it as the 'Torture Hole'. It was in this particular room that Artemis Fowl the Second, to his distaste, found himself engaging in discussion with a less-than-eager Mafia hit man – who refused to do as much as tell anyone his name. The nerve.

The lenses of Artemis's heavy-duty, polarized, quartz headgear – specifically designed for usage in the Interrogation Room – glinted constantly in the near-blinding light. Even behind them he had to squint. However, the hit man before him was far less comfortable than his interrogator, having no eye protection whatsoever. Perhaps being at the mercy at one of the world's most dangerous young men was adding to his discomfort as well.

Artemis seated himself on one side of the table that was bolted into the middle of the floor. The hit man was seated opposite him, titanium cuffs on both his wrists and ankles, on a far less cushy chair. Technically, it was more a pile of cinderblocks grouted together, but Artemis was not about to pay attention to the comfort of one of his least important 'visitors'.

"My, my," he beamed brightly, observing the vast array of weapons spread out on the table in front of him. "What an arsenal!"

A flicker of doubt crossed the hit man's face. He wasn't quite sure of what to make of Fowl; the way he talked was a way that could put most people at ease. The only thing that was in the way of this hit man's ease was Artemis's formidable reputation, and that was a hard thing to get past. And then there were the rumours of what Fowl had done, and they were perhaps scarier.

"Yeah," the hit man grunted in agreement. Were his hands free, he would have scratched his head. His mother had always said he was a little docile. Perhaps 'thick' may have done him more justice.

"Oh. What's this?" Artemis feigned curiosity as he picked up the latest technology in firearms, the Greylands Customiser S-60. It was three weapons in one: a pistol, which could be pulled out to make a high-powered rifle, which in turn could be modified to create a machine gun. Of course, it was futile for Artemis to try and fake his curiosity. After all, he had practically created the Customiser, and was widely known for it.

"It's a Greylands Customiser," the reply was unsure. The hit man's broad face was furrowed with lines of confusion. This was the infamous Artemis Fowl, not some benign hermit, wasn't it…?

"Ah." This was the last word he heard before there was a volley of shots, and the sound of breaking glass. The hit man fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, cowering in fear. The light was dimmer than before, still bright, but the change was welcome.

"I was getting rather sick of those lights," Artemis snapped, as if it were the hit man's fault. "I suppose you're getting sick of them, too?"

The hit man nodded, not moving from his position on the floor.

"Well, you can either choose to cope with them, or live in darkness for the rest of your life. Which probably won't be very long, mind."

The prospect of being made blind wasn't one the hit man really wanted to think about. If Fowl wanted to play games all day long, he may as well be the one to start the interrogation.

"So, what do you want to know?" his mouth was dry, his voice slurred.

Artemis beamed another one of his faux smiles. "So, you want to co-operate, now?" He thought for a moment, before producing a palmtop computer and turning it on.

"Number one: Who is your benefactor?" he read, the stylus in his other hand looping across the screen as he penned it down into the computer.

"Benefactor? Gee, I dunno, really."

Artemis laughed coldly. "And I suppose that's what I get for coming across low-ranking nobodies. Take a guess, and get the right answer. This is not a question you can afford to get wrong."

The hit man blinked slowly, making himself look like a cow more than a human. "Diamantex. The diamond mining company. That is all I know, honestly."

The answer seemed sufficient for Artemis. The stylus skated across the screen once more.

"Number two: Where is your biggest concentration?"

"You know that." The hit man had gathered enough nerve to talk back, if only slightly.

"So, it hasn't changed? Well, I suppose, for me, that's a welcome surprise." It wasn't really a surprise. Just a disappointment, really. Artemis had really only gained one piece of information worth keeping, and it was clear that the assassin was stupid; he was probably oblivious to most of the goings on in his own organization.

"That's it?" Now the hit man's voice was incredulous. He had been expecting more, just like he'd been asked when the Russians caught him. He failed to see the flash of annoyance pass across his interrogator's face, replaced by a cold, sadistic smirk.

"No," replied Artemis, "That's not it."

There was a silence as he let his last words sink in. It was indeed the case that the hit man was slow, as the last expression on his face was one of bewilderment. That is, before Artemis, with speed that one would not have really attributed to him, extended the Greylands Customiser into a machine gun, and emptied a full clip into the hit man's face. Flesh, bones and blood alike were churned up in a crimson foam, splattering the walls, ceiling and floor. The hot slurry splashed up at Artemis's face, and then there was the familiar click, click, click of a gun without ammunition. Only then did he stop.

Behind a small one-way mirror, Butler cringed. Something must have made Master Artemis incredibly mad.

***

"Oi, short-arse, give me another!"

The cuts on her knuckles were beginning to heal. The stitches had been taken out and the blood congealed into rough scabs. The cuts had been deep, but regrettably they had not severed tendons or even cracked bone, which was a shame really. That's what you get for using a box cutter as opposed to a proper knife when you're trying to cut your own fingers off for fun.

Caitlin Woodgrove was a sociopath. It didn't take a genius to figure it out. She was one of those socially incompetent, sadistic, hotheaded people who barely ever felt guilt. She was rather proud of it, too. Much to her disappointment she was stuck serving abusive drunks in a dingy pub in the back streets of Ireland, which is hardly the right place for someone who could kill her own mother without batting an eyelid or shedding a tear.

"Can I help you?" she tried being courteous, though she knew it wouldn't work. The man was drunk off his feet, which was one of the reasons he wasn't leaving. It was also the reason he was displaying the most common symptom of a hardened alcoholic: obnoxiousness. He smiled a stupid, wobbly grin and pushed his glass towards her, a little too hard. It fell off the counter and seemed to give him some pleasure to see the dregs of his Heineken splash over Caitlin's shoes. His sonorous guffaws seemed to encourage the other inhabitants of the pub, and soon the room was echoing with peals of laughter.

Caitlin frowned. The beer was soaking into her socks, and it was only midday. She still had three quarters of a shift left, and God knows how long it takes beer to get washed out…

She felt her anger boil over uncontrollably. Any normal person would have smiled politely, picked up the cup and refilled it. But Caitlin didn't feel like smiling politely. She felt like kicking the shit out of the tanked up loser who had made her day just one pint worse.

However, something made her pause. Or rather, a court order made her pause.

Her psychologist had given her exercises to cope with rage, and by law, she had to remember them. Reluctantly, she let his calm voice float about her head: Breathe in, breathe out. Think of something happy. Of puppies in green meadows…

The psychologist hadn't thought of the fact that Caitlin just so happened to hate puppies with a vengeance. It stemmed back to the Cocker Spaniel who lived around the block and urinated on everything. But that is another story, and we do not need to read an anecdote about a dog with bladder problems.

In an instant she leapt across the bar counter and placed her foot against the drunk's throat, letting gravity do its duty. He fell to the floor, spluttering against her weight, which just happened to be resting its entirety on his trachea. And so the drunk began to do what people do best in this situation: turn blue at an alarming rate.

Bar stools scraped against linoleum as men in various stages of drunkenness tried to pull Caitlin off the man, who was now a rather flattering shade of magenta. One of the locals, a mountain of a man simply known as 'Tank' succeeded with lifting her off the ground a full two feet, until she punched him hard on the nose and was rewarded with a sickly crack. He dropped her rather promptly.

Dashing past the huddled mass of men without so much as removing her apron, she felt a surge of relief she associated with the suffering of others. A sick, twisted smile spread across her features as her heavy boots left bloodied tracks across the floor. The heavy door groaned as she struggled to keep it open long enough for her to leave.

No sooner had she made it out onto the main street than yet another man intercepted her, although this one was considerably more sober than the last one. He was tall, with a wizened face the colour of almond, a broad nose and a barrel chest that made him look like a Clydesdale horse, albeit a scary one. Caitlin shivered, though she attributed it to the bitingly cold weather rather than fear. She didn't like to think that she was starting to become a coward.

"Miss Woodgrove. So glad you have run into me, so glad," the man smiled and shook her hand, somehow ushering her into a nearby alley. "Elias Tabbard."

Caitlin stared blankly at him. His name didn't register with her memory, and neither did his face. And that thought was as comforting as a bed of nails, seeing as though he evidently knew hers.

"What do you want?" she asked, squirming to get her arm free from his vicelike grip.

"I'd like to offer you a job."

Caitlin blinked, stunned. "Odd way to ask me," she spoke in clipped tones that barely conveyed the extent of her annoyance. He dropped her arm and it fell limply to her side as she recognised the shape of an ankle holster strapped just above his Italian loafers.

She attempted to smile at Elias, but she knew she had failed dismally. Resembling somewhat a rabid Doberman baring its teeth, she took the envelope he offered to her.

"You know about Artemis Fowl the Second?" His voice was hoarse, the sound one would associate with a car with bad transmission. Caitlin scowled at him.

"Just because I've been in therapy for four months doesn't mean I've been living in a cave for twenty years. Fowl's only the smartest, most notorious man in Europe. Nope, never heard of him," her voice dripped with sarcasm, a clear sign that she was irritated. She slid a chewed nail beneath the seal of the envelope and produced a photo from it.

"Fowl's bodyguard. Fortress of a man, you ask anyone who's tried to kill Fowl. Not that there are any of them left," he grinned as if it was some big joke.

Realisation struck Caitlin as the words sunk in. Elias had blocked the entrance of the alleyway; he meant business. Caitlin grimaced as conflict raged within her. She wanted to return to her previous occupation, however, that occupation just so happened to be illegal. And she hadn't been that successful, either. If she had, she wouldn't have been caught at it in the first place.

"Why are you wanting me to kill him, then? Why not corner Fowl some place and slit his throat?" Caitlin's tone was incredulous; after weighing the possibilities she had concluded that it was not worth facing life in the slammer only to hit a brick wall of a man. "Furthermore, why me?"

Elias smirked patronisingly, as if Caitlin was a schoolgirl who had trouble understanding a question. "He's not invincible, Miss Woodgrove. Not even he can hold his own against a Teflon-coated round to the head." He hesitated, "And once he's down, well, Fowl will be another gang warfare statistic. And you? You just happen to be convenient – and cheap."

Caitlin leant against the wet brick wall and sighed, hoping that that was all Elias had to say. Of course, it wasn't.

"You can shoot, and you just happened to have beaten up two drunks in a bar. Aggravated Assault, perhaps… that is, if I testify to it."

Caitlin felt the colour and heat rise to her face. It explained Elias's holier-than-thou attitude. Then again, some people are just born that way.

A sly smile crept across Elias's weathered features as Caitlin's face collapsed into a grimace.

"You have any other skills?" he asked nonchalantly, as a couple walked past the alley, casting curious glances at Caitlin and Elias.

"I shoot. Just like you said, and that's it," she paused for a second, growing tired of being tolerant. "I don't hack, don't write romance novels under a pen name, and definitely don't perform sexual favours on middle-aged bigwigs." For a moment she contemplated adding 'such as yourself' to the end of the sentence, but she refrained. After all, she wasn't the only person with a short fuse.

Much to her surprise, he grinned. "A no-nonsense girl. Perfect thing for this job, y'know? No wonder you got away with murder -,"

"-Manslaughter," Caitlin corrected automatically. That was the defence her lawyer had used. That, and mental instability. One lie and one truth.

His expression got serious, and to Caitlin's dismay, he reached out to trace the twisted, red scar that ran from her right ear, down her jaw line to stop at her chin. She shuddered, repulsed, and bit her lip to keep her cool – so hard that she began to bleed, the warm liquid like a strange metallic endorphin.

"However, I'd like to know how your lawyer explained away this," he withdrew his hand and shoved it deep into his pocket.

"Horse riding accident," shrugged Caitlin. Elias turned and pulled a hood over his head as the rain really began to fall, casting an icy haze across the city. Caitlin sighed, full of relief as she watched him walk to the curb.

"You've never ridden a horse in your life," he said, and Caitlin could hear the smirk in his voice. As she placed her freezing, stiff hand in her jeans pocket, her fingers brushed against cardboard. A business card. In one corner, the neat black font announced that the card belonged to Elias V. Tabbard, Tutor. On the other side, a somewhat cryptic jumble of numbers and letters were written back-to-front: 1750 61395980231 int revc diod.

Caitlin scowled. She hated codes.

***

Argh.

*cough* A sidenote – or, rather, a blatantly blunt hint: Note that the genre of this fic does *not* include romance.