Katydid Kata

Originally written for a CTL-9 assignment (hard to believe I got this from The Cask of Amontillado, I know), but I was thinking of Blue Yeti while I wrote this. She's been on my mind a lot lately. Does it show?

This is a highly incomplete story. This is the first time I have ever tried to write from the 1st Person, and it most certainly did not go very well. If anyone's willing to give me a good beta for this that is decent at the 1st, please, please email me.

"You are not my son."

It is so hard to believe these words, even after six years. I would say that they hurt, except they don't. I am unashamed to admit that he is not my father either.

Perhaps a touch of background would help. My name is Artemis Fowl, and although legally I am the Second as well, I consider myself the only true Artemis Fowl. Father, as I shall call him for simplicity's sake, is nothing more than a soft-hearted fool that has never been worthy of the Fowl name.

Truth be told, I have a hard time believing he ever was cold-hearted criminal that I am today. I know that, once, he shunned me as I shun him today, but those were the years before Katie.

Ah, Katie, Katydid Kata! I remember her name as I remember little else; it was her death that led to those anguished words of Father. She was someone of little consequence, barely a moment in the cold years of my life all those long seasons ago, when my mind was still so far from total perfection…

I digress. I am no writer, and, to tell you again, am no weak human. Perfection is my goal, and although I doubt I shall ever achieve it in the short lifespan I have been cursed with, I cannot pause long. This tale may only serve as something to lighten my mind for a few days; years from now, I may even suffer the extreme depression and eventual suicide all genii are fated with.

But I remember Katie, Katydid Kata. And now, to stop the darkness of my shadowed mind from taking hold, I shall pass my memories on to you.

I know that, long ago, I thought memories a gift, something so sacred that its elimination was a horror beyond even death. Yet that was in the fierce thoughts of my short youth, when all superstition and paltry emotions had not been stripped away. Memories are a curse, and the pain of what once was can be… overwhelming to the silken efficiency that my mind has achieved.

I doubt that you shall understand me, O Nameless One who has been cursed with this account, but I do not particularly care. I am far separated from the petty affairs of humanity; life has become simply a window to look through, to experiment with to my pleasure. I believe the only reason why I have not decided to shut that window is because my body still wishes to live. For now, I shall let it eat and sleep and function on the edges of normality. Perhaps, after this tale is done and the pages scattered to the winds of the Emerald Isle, I shall shut the blinds and close the curtains. Perhaps I shall open them a little wider, and take off the screen with which I keep myself separate and pure.

I believe the former is the most likely to occur.

I met Katie, or Katriana Isolde, as her birth certificate states, in my sixteenth year of life. Father, since my bodyguard's fatal heart attack a year before and our maid's elopement to America, had become increasingly worried about security. The Russian Mafiya, ever since Father's mysterious escape, has been out for our blood—Mother died in a car-bombing shortly after Father's return. Until we found a permanent bodyguard, he wished us to learn some small self-defense.

I was enrolled in the Dublin Institute of Martial Arts on my fifteenth birthday. I looked much the same then as I do now; chin-length black hair, almost feminine in its texture and length. My eyes were Father's, dark blue that could almost seem black unless one spent too long looking at them (In which case, I would take the proper security precautions and have them removed from my presence). My frame was somewhat gawky, as I had just had a growth spurt, and my body itself thin from a strict diet.

The Institute can no longer be found on Dublin maps, as the bomb resulted in its demolition by entrepreneuring landowners, but I shall get to that later. It was an old brick building, although ivy did not grow due to the manager's more contemporary aesthetic preferences, facing one of the older streets—I can't remember which one. In any case, you may assume that the manager's tastes led to some odd conflicts in style; I may not be as fashion-savvy as the former maid, but naked metal looks rather… odd next to Persian rugs in the entryway.

The floor of the training room was hardwood, probably spruce by the grain and musky smell, with grooves along the bars by the mirrors where ballerinas once dipped and fluttered like swans. Yet the rest of the room was painted a glaring white; not the gently muted tones of off-white, but the sort that is found on newly bleached teeth. The fluorescent lighting only made this worse, giving everyone an unhealthy glow to their skin.

I remember, in a conversation that shall not be part of this narrative, Katie's comment that I looked like a vampire beneath these lights. I had smiled.

I think I blinked when I first entered the too-white, too-bright room. I think everyone did.

"Syn?"Father had asked, clutching my shoulder gently. "Son? Are you sure you want to do this?"

I smiled. For some reason, my smile always put people on the defense; in this case, it was on purpose. Father had been the one that had pushed me to do this. He deserved a vampire's, perhaps the Baron Dracula's, wrath for taking time away from my books. "Of course, sir." I was always respectful to Father back then, even with my mild distaste for him. I still had those foolish notions about trusting one's parents. Six months later, I wouldn't even give Father a sign of emotion.

He sighed deeply. He looked similar to my current state; the lines of a candle's flame burning out were already beginning to crease his face, even at the young age of thirty-six. His hair was just beginning to gray after Mother's death; I remember seeing those first strands of silver with something close to horror. Naïveté had not yet been completely scoured away with the harsh reality of logic. "Do try and be friendly, Arty. Our years on Earth are numbered, and friendship shall let them linger a bit longer."

Linger. I did not want to linger; I wanted to remain forever, like a bastion of strength from which all else shall cower. I had great ambitions back then, foolish ones that spoke of being remembered forever and continuing the Fowl name. To increase in wealth—gold—was the only thing that truly concerned me, and was at the heart of everything I did. So very foolish…

Had I been willing to tell the truth, I would have said: Never, Father. I saw what happened to you after Mother died. Love kills you in the end. Now, I can't help but wonder how things would have happened if I had actually said that. I would have never met Katydid Kata, Katie, who had changed and doomed me through her death. I might have even run away and died in some gang-ridden alley in Dublin.

Instead, I smiled again. An involuntary wince flickered on Father's face; he did not like my smile. "Yes, Father. I shall try."

I left him there by the door, striding out in the pose the old bodyguard had taught me; legs always slightly bent, ready to spring back at the slightest danger, and hands loosely curled. I was also watching my surroundings, another valuable skill that I had cultured on my own. The bodyguard—his name may be one of the few things I wish I still did remember—had said this once: The trick to learning is not to listen, or to read, but to keep your eyes open. Always open.

That has been proven true time and time again. After careful analyzation of the already-sparring people on the floor, I chose to stand by the group of other white belts and observe from a relatively inconspicuous place.

I planted myself squarely between a young brunette, who seemed about my age, and a boy of similar facial structure. They were probably siblings, although I never bothered to find out. Or perhaps I simply don't remember.

The girl turned to me. There wasn't anything special about her, unless you count the mole above the right corner of her mouth. Her bone structure was light and bird-like, as many of Welsh descent are, and her eyes a simple gray that probably came from English blood as well. "You new too?" she had asked. It was at that point I noticed she didn't have the lilt that most Irish have; her words were crisp, accented with that famous British twang.

Her words also put me off a bit, in the beginning, but one of my rambling thoughts has decided it preferred this to the full: Are you new as well? Fewer muscles and oxygen was required to speak so, although it still causes a dip in the metaphoric Respect-O-Meter.

I remember blinking at the hand she stretched out between us. After a hesitation, I took it and shook firmly. I'm not sure why I did it, although it may have been surprise. If you believe Einstein's theory on alternate universes, perhaps in all the other ones I spat in it or ignored her.

She grinned at me, shaking my hand enthusiastically. "Strong grip," she remarked.

When I responded by pulling my hand out, she smiled again; the faint uplift to the right side of her mouth. More of a smirk than anything, but there was no mockery in it. I remember liking that smile immensely. It reminded me of something—someone. Perhaps some childhood friend, or a former enemy that had died with that smile and a bullet through the cranium.

I think that name was Mistletoe. Or Rowan. Or Holly.

"Silent too," she had said, still smiling. "You one of those rich Irish boys?"

I thought carefully before answering. "You could say that."

She gave me a funny look. "Friendly too," she said at last. "D'you have a name?"

"Yes."

The corner of her mouth uplifted again, crinkling the skin around her right eye. "Can you say it aloud for the whole class to hear?" she asked, gently mimicking the tones of a clichéd schoolteacher.

I spared myself a glance at the room. The sensei didn't appear anywhere nearer to starting. "Yes."

A full smile this time. "Tell me it," she commanded, "and don't go looking for loopholes this time."

"Artemis Fowl."

Before she could respond, the sensei clapped his hands briskly together. Had I bothered to remember what he looked like, I would describe it to you, but it is not important to the story.

Before I continue with this meaningless tale, let me explain something. I have made it a priority to forget human bonds. The memories that are before you in the oh-so-classic Times New Roman font are the ones that I have failed to forget, the moments that flicker across that window of life with annoying regularity. There are holes between them, time-gaps that cannot be filled with logic and reasoning since the human mind is not a reasonable thing, nor a logical thing.

The next time I saw Katydid Kata was during the next session, which I believe was sometime in the next week. She had arrived after me, and, after smiling in her odd way, she flounced on over. I remember noticing that she had few curves. Although this may make me sound… ah… es chaud, to put it in the oh-so-delicate French language, I did this because I must watch to learn. Domovoi—I think that was his name—told me this.

This told me she was relatively young, or at least late to develop.

"Hey, Artemis!" she exclaimed, standing in front of me. Her grin widened to both sides of the mouth when she saw my discomfort.

I eyed her coldly, and straightened the simple white—off-white, not bright-white—uniform I had been given. "Yes?"

"My name's Katriana Isolde," she responded, as if her senses were programmed to ignore anything hostile, "or Katie, if you prefer. My friends call me Katydid Kata. Katydid 'cause I jump like a bug. Kata'cause I have good memory."

My eyebrows rose. I remember this because she had laughed at my expression. "Isolde?" I had asked. Isolde was a character from Irish mythology, and certainly not a surname. Hardy a compliment either.

She laughed again. "Yes, Isolde!" Then, by way of explanation, she added, "My dad decided he wanted a name to help us integrate into Ireland better. Isolde was the first name of one of his girlfriends in London."

I wanted to ask a question—I'm not entirely sure what—but the sensei clapped his hands again.

Our next encounter was not until three months later. Father wanted me to start driving, and I am cautious by nature. A favorable characteristic, in my opinion, but certainly not one that the other drivers appreciate.

She smiled at me. I must admit that her smile had appeared almost routine to me; whenever we went through those meaningless dances of kata, she gave me that half-grin. It was somewhat amusing, in a strange way. Knowing how I was back then, and especially how I was after Mother's and the bodyguard's death, I was probably beginning to think her a friend.

"Hello, Katriana," I had said.

She smiled at me again. She had begun growing out her hair; when I had first seen her, her hair was short and bobbed, sensibly cut back. Now it was darker, as winter had begun to blow cold and harsh outside the Institute's doors, and ended in a lingering fashion just above her shoulders. "Call me Katydid Kata," she responded, amused.

I remember smiling at her as well. She recoiled, but only a little. A surprisingly mild reaction. "Klutz may be a better pseudonym." This referred to an incident several weeks ago, when she tripped during a spar and landed on her opponent's feet.

She laughed again. Perhaps I was growing too familiar with her, for I smiled too. "I think I prefer Katydid Kata, Arty."

My smiled faded. "Don't call me Arty."

"Whyever not?"

I paused, trying to think. I certainly wasn't used to people talking back like that; most people knew the name of a Fowl, and what to expect. Finally, I settled with: "It is none of your concern."

She laughed. She actually laughed. This probably made me madder than any of the weakness I had showed in front of her. "If we're going to be friends, Arty, we can't keep secrets. Like did you know that my dad works for Interpol?"

"Really. In that case, I am most certainly not interested in talking to you." I turned, waiting for the eventual clap of the sensei. The long, repetitious patterns of the katas never seemed more engaging.

I'm not sure what happened next. I wish I did; what words that may have passed between us might be that shadow lurking in my mind now, that darkness that flickers but is not lost. It was probably caused by a concussion; my memories are, in many places, fractured from my early life. Not at all desired in some cases, if not most.

In any case, the bomb blew then. Later, in those cold evenings spent recuperating in Fowl Manor, I would learn that our new bodyguard had set off the bomb; he had been hired to kill Father and I from the beginning. I would later order him shot and thrown into the Atlantic.

The next thing I remember of any consequence was pulling myself from beneath a slab of gypsum siding. My left arm was broken, although, fortunately, I was right-minded and handed. Contrary to popular belief, not all genii are 'lefties'.

The Institute was more-or-less intact. The windows, few as they were, were all blown out; the ceiling had all fallen out until the first mocking gray sky patches bled through the darkness above.

The blast had come in from below, probably originating from the basement. There were probably other focal points, other bombs on different stories, but it does not particularly matter at the present. The worn floorboards were all lackadaisical, like a thousand card decks that had all been left in various stages of bridging.

My first thought was for Katie. I know how utterly stupid and sentimental this was of me; today, I would never do something like that. I don't think I would have ever done that before those endless karate lessons. Katie's odd half-smiles had put me in a peculiar mind-set. Mother had been like that as well, and even the dead maid—who, I remember now, had died in a hit-and-run orchestrated by the Chicago Mafia—had caused… strange behaviors.

The pain from my broken arm stopped me, jolting me into the cold calculation that is the epitome of me today. Katie did not matter. The broken arm did; a bone splinter had erupted through the skin, severing the brachial artery. Dark red blood oozed from the unicorn-like projection as a glacier through a valley; slowly, but inevitable.

I stripped off my still-white belt, wrapping it quickly around my left arm and tightening it just above the wound in a half-tourniquet that would slow circulation, but not cause permanent damage.

When I could spare thought to escape, I was surprised. Few people were even visible; I had been lucky that the slabs from above had only shed a few stories in my area. The majority of the sparring pairs were buried under ten stories of combined bricks from the walls, ceiling panels and floor tiles. Later, I would learn that there were only fifteen survivors of the fifty-person session. The sensei died. I'm not sure why I remember that.

I do remember Katie, though, and I do know why. Her hand, alabaster from the gypsum dust that had been rendered atmospheric by the explosion(s), was sticking out from beneath a nearby tile.

My eyes continued to wander, following the inevitable path of the broken arm. A head, red, brown and white, was there, and the slight body beneath the shadowed eaves of the many layers of tile and panels.

Then the screaming started.

It must have taken at least thirty seconds for it to start, and I cannot pass this off as poor reaction time; many were faster than Domovoi, the old bodyguard. Most might not have been an overstatement.

But the screams…

It is truly strange how they haunt me. Their variance and pitches were comparable to a symphony; here and there the high, trembling tones of a flute could be heard, crying out for their mothers. Bass tones—bellowing tones, the sound of dying elephants—came from the elder blackbelts. There was the percussion, the steady beat of hail on the broken roof-top ten stories above and where it had begun to meteor through the ragged holes. I could hear others, too—the low, mournful moan of the French Horns, knowing that they're dying but crying out anyways. Many of the sounds blended together, although some were ever doomed to stand out; an infant's scream, the keening wail of piccolo, was heard above the music and silenced as its time had ended.

And there was the applause. The continued rain of bricks and panels, dust and tiles, from above, further burying some. Here and there was the dull thud of it striking already broken bodies.

The music continued, undulating with the sound of applause and the slicing notes of polylingual curses—trumpets, to my mind.

You shall probably think me sick for thinking this, O Cursed One, but I must say the music was… invigorating. I think it was then that I first began to truly think clearly. Why should I care for Katie? Why at all? Why even… for the world?

Hate me if you will, but, after fashioning a loose sling from the remaining length of my belt, I began to leave.

I had barely made it past Katie when Father came. When there is a loud noise in the reason, remember this; it was probably a Fowl's doing. Unless I do choose to end the window of life, my network of crime shall only spread, manipulating the world as I see fit.

Father was ever a sentimental one. Even in that time that he cared little for the toddler that crawled on his lap and tried to read Science, he cried.

He cried here. He cried as he ran towards me.

I wonder how it is that he knew it was me. When I first visited him in the hospital, he knew I was there without even opening his eyes—and just before Mother died, she could tell that something bad was about to happen. If my window of life does not close, I believe the 'sixth sense' shall be something to look into.

When Father reached me, the tears were already cleansing his face of the gypsum dust lacing the air. Remembering that the powder could eventually lead to lung cancer, I used the sleeve to filter the atmosphere.

"Arty!" he cried, reaching forward and clutching my left shoulder. I winced at the momentary jolt of pain.

I took the cloth off of my mouth long enough to answer. "Yes?"

He seemed surprised at my cold response, but took me into his arms anyways, wrapping his thin arms around me. I didn't hug him back, choosing instead to tap my foot impatiently against a cracked gypsum board. The sound was lost amongst the endless encore of screams.

He didn't say anything for a long time. It felt very awkward; his arms traveled up and down my back, sometimes squeezing and sometimes just resting lightly across the no-longer off-white karate gei. He was sobbing into my shoulder—bassoon, on the higher notes that make it stutter and weep like a poorly-played oboe.

I know that before he disappeared all those long years ago, I would have enjoyed this, as Katie might have wished this from me—although her intentions were certainly not romantically inclined. When emotions were like tobacco or heroine to me—I suppressed the desire for them, but the only came back fiercer and stronger until I gave in, letting the tears flow or the laughter ring.

But I could never get enough of it. I think that was what was wrong with Father here.

He disgusts me.

But I didn't draw away. I stood there.

I disgust myself.

"…when you're strange… you see faces in the rain…"

I remember those words. I hear them often on the radio that Father leaves on downstairs in the kitchen, before I turn it off. Those were the words Katie spoke then, still alive beneath the gypsum slabs.

She sung them slightly out of tune, and her British accent tore them from the original rhythm. I didn't particularly care.

Father let go of me, finally, with the air of someone that has been pulled from an impossibly bitter dream. "Who was that?"

A stupid question. I answered nonetheless. "Katriana Isolde."

She was hallucinating, I think: "…when you're strange… no one remembers your name…"

Father turned to me when he saw I didn't leap to help. "Aren't you going to help?"

I shook my head, smiling. "No, Père. My arm needs professional attention."

It was true; the blood has begun to stain my geia brilliant crimson that, in some places, had dried and been coated with dust, rendering it a light shade of coral pink. The bone still stuck out; a unicorn horn encrusted with ruby droplets.

Father stared at me, then bent down, pushing, in vain, on the gypsum slabs.

"…blood ro—Arty? That you? –ses blood roses…"

Father turned to me. His already white hands appeared like that of a ghost. "You know her, and you're not helping?! What is wrong with you?"

I cocked my head, still smiling slightly. Katriana Isolde, Katie, Katydid Kata, whatever you wish to call her, had stopped singing in that delusional voice. Another flute dropped from the symphony, but no one noticed; there were always too many damn flautists in the world. "Nothing, Father. I simply came back to my senses."

He stared at me, mixed emotions passing in turn across his face; confusion, anger, despair, and, finally, pity. "You are not my son, Artemis."

"I know."

That was the account. Here is an epilogue, of sorts:

Katriana Isolde had died when her voice stopped. She had suffered multiple concussions, which is, in my mind, the only excuse for singing Tori Amos.

The faux bodyguard had been hired by Britva, who was the man in charge of Father's original kidnapping and Mother's death. His pride had been sorely wounded by Father's escape; mine was when Father was proclaimed clinically insane. I eventually led Interpol into catching him—an anonymous tip, mind you.

Father went mad. I kept the local asylum from taking him in, as I did not want him spilling all my little secrets, and he lurks downstairs in front of the television drawing stick figures of him and Mother together again. I am considering having him shot. He likes to disturb me at the most annoying times.

And I? I think I have made up my mind. The window shall be shut shortly, after I test a few things with some old acquaintances I have rediscovered. Old friends, mostly, that shall be most unhappy at my presence, but a few what ifs as well. Mostly with Holly, who has begun to tug at my mind lately—perhaps I shall talk to her. Or kiss her. Not that it particularly matters.

And if you are still reading this Father, or the Nameless One, as I call you, let me say this; you still disgust me. I believe everything about life does, so don't bother to feel offended.

For now, the window remains. Memories, but reflections across the smooth pane, are still there. This worthless exercise has done nothing but increase these so I cannot even see outside.

Katie is on that window. I can see her, smiling that half-smile of hers. She is laughing at me, gently so, at what I fool I am making of myself.

I think that window needs to be shut now.

I hope that was acceptable. That was my first time ever writing in the First, and I'm not about to claim I'm brilliant at it. Help, please?

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper