Disclaimer: Sues are, most fortunately, not mine, nor are the various Artemis Fowl characters appearing. And the brief appearance of the Almighty Douglas Adams is completely not mine. Savvy tantas?

Not part of Over-Analyzation because it shall have multiple sections. Not one for every Sue, obviously, but you get the point.

Dedicated to that little, angsty Sue within all of us. Yes, even you Gus.

Plot of the Sues (An oxymoron, I know)

Introduction: Marie-Claire

There was a knock on the door.

Artemis Senior slid his dark blue eyes towards the mahogany door, narrowing them slightly. Domovoi never knocked. Juliet, Dom's sister or no, could be heard a mile away. Junior never had anything to say to him. Angeline usually called to him from outside the door. An assassin would not be so stupid to knock, unless their quality had gone down sufficiently since the Chartre incident.

"Come in," he said, and adjusted the mirror so he could watch the door without turning. His long, elegant white hands tightened around a titanium letter opener.

He blinked. Twice. Framed in the convex make-up mirror he had borrowed from Juliet was a girl who was most certainly not the two-year-old Butler. She had the sort of hair one sees in Herbal Essences commercials, although whatever length it had was concealed through the gleaming onyx braids that were coiled up like a crown around her head. Large, exotic amethyst eyes stared at him from beneath obviously plucked eyebrows, standing out all the more against the creamy honey of her skin. The faintest dash of glitter highlighted her angular cheekbones, and was matched by the gleaming points her heliotrope nails made. Her curves stretched at the seams of space-time, almost to the point of being labeled Hollywood.

She wore a classic French maid's dress with a little feather duster in one hand.

Strike One.

"Er… Sir?" she asked tentatively, stepping into the threshold.

Artemis sighed, and swiveled his chair towards the girl. She could barely even be fifteen, but those curves!

He glanced, semi-guilty, at a photograph of Angeline on their wedding day before continuing. A bit of a no-no there. "Yes?"

She bobbed her head, petite hands almost bird-like in fashion as they fluttered nervously around the duster's worn sandalwood grip. "I'm Claire-Marie, sir. I'm supposed to report to you, sir."

"And who sent you?" he asked, sighing inwardly. These could be so repetitious.

The head ducked down again. "Mademoiselle Angeline, sir."

He threaded his hand through his loose black hair, then brought it down to rub his temples. "And when did Madame Fowl ask for your help around the house?"

She was about to bob her head again, but he cut her off with the other hand. "Let me guess; when she saw that Juliet and Domovoi, who have each spent the better part of ten years training to take care of three very neat people in a relatively unused Manor, needed assistance. Correct?" His eyes raised themselves to look at hers, meeting their beryl depths questioningly.

She met them squarely. "Yes, sir. Arty has been especially stressful lately, as I understand it, sir."

Strike Two.

A vein pulsed at Artemis' forehead, but it was fortunately covered by the shifting strands of black as he leaned back in his plush leather chair. "Since when have you and my son been on a first name basis?"

For the first time, her gaze wavered, ducking down again towards the deep indigo carpet. Her petite feet shuffled nervously. "We—we've met before."

Three Strikes and You're Out…

Artemis rested his elbows on the chair's armrests, lacing his hands together before his bloodless lips. The seat reclined fractionally. "And where did you meet? At school, or 'deep underground in Haven'?"

"Actually, sir, it was in Hea—"

He cut her off again with a brisk wave of a hand. "I've heard them all, Claire-Marie. Judging by the fake British accent, you're really from some imaginary world where any idiot can apply for an extremely elite job that no one of your… figure… could possibly succeed. You will say you're from either Britain, Ireland, France or possibly Atlantis."

"It's called America," she interrupted angrily, violet eyes flashing. Her arms had crossed themselves across her hefty bosom.

"Whatever you prefer to call it, my dear Marie. You are also too young to have possibly earned a 'blue diamond tattoo', a license from any known country for assassinating and/or spying, or, in a very, very fantastical world, a graduation into LEPretrieval. You are somehow gifted, despite your young years and the social habits that come with incredible beauty, millionaire status, a membership in MENSA, and license for flying aeroplanes."

"Helicopters," she said, sounding strained. Her face had taken on an odd red hue that would not have been misplaced upon Julius Root.

"And," he continued triumphantly, "might I add, that you have forgotten the small fact that Artemis Fowl Junior is only a year old. Your stupidity is unparalleled. You should not, by all definitions, exist."

There was an odd popping sound, causing Artemis to blink. When his eyelids opened again, Marie-Claire was gone. She had, in so many words, disappeared in a puff of logic.

He sighed, and walked over to the doorway. She had left a small dust pile, shimmering purple contacts, and a note. He picked it up.

WARRANT: ATTAIN ARTEMIS FOWL BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

Artemis' sigh repeated itself. It was sad, really, to see how low the fine art of forgery had fallen these days. Marie-Claire hadn't even done any research behind what a real warrant looked like, alleged American or no.

The wrinkle lines etched themselves a little deeper. She hadn't even gotten the name right. For whatever legal purposes the warrant was meant to serve, she was coming after him.

He shuddered, and sat down again. His thinning frame sank into the chair daintily, only denting the fine weave slightly.

Artemis spun the chair around. There, lying on the desk where he had abandoned it, was the letter opener. There was a funny red stain that hadn't quite come off yet, despite Domovoi's ministrations, running down its side.

Speaking of Domovoi…

He rang the buzzer on the hardwood desk. There was a little pile of radioactive dust she needed to sweep up before Junior decided it tasted good.

How would Artemis Sn. know about things and characters that haven't even appeared yet? Why, the Sues told him, of course!

Yes, this will eventually have a real plot. For now, call it a collection of Sue-bashing with a plot that is too layered in highly symbolic foreshadowing for anyone of a decent IQ to understand.

Throw whatever you'd like on the review pages. Suggestions are even welcome. I'm letting myself loose on these.

Updates are whenever I get sick of confined, intricate stuff like OMAM or my original stuff, whose complexity level is about to surpass The Silmarillion. I like having breaks occasionally, you know.

Namárië,

Nallasariel the Weeper