Dedication: This chapter is dedicated to Ivycreeper who, although she doesn't know it, really inspires me to research and plan ideas. I strongly admire what she has done with her own story New Moon and all the research and effort she puts into each new chapter. And when she reviews she is always pointing out things that I've never thought about. Ivy, I hadn't thought about how the disease was actually going to work (I've now thought about it more and have it figured out), or about the mythological sites which you've put in New Moon -a variation of which I need for later in this fic. You always make me feel guilty when I'm slacking off or bullcr*pping my way though a scene and for that I thank you. This story wouldn't be what it is without your researching habits encouraging my own non-existent ones.

Disclaimer: I don't own RT Miss. Although I'm sure he would make me regret it if I did.

Author's Note: The bomb description I use in this chapter is what was used in the Bali bombing that occurred last year – although probably not many people remember it, or even heard of it. Or at least, not as many who remember September 11. I can't even remember the date to give to you. Just… it's not my overly evil imagination going wild when I mention cruel things that you don't think would ever happen – my inspiration is humanity. As depressing as that thought might be.

And I do know that I would be readily excepted into the Character Cruelty League along with whoever invented Sylvester and that poor Coyote.

Chapter Nine

Left Handed

"I like a story with a bad moral … all true stories have a coarse touch or a bad moral, depend upon't. If the story-tellers could ha' got decency and good morals from true stories, who'd have troubled to invent parables."

- Thomas Hardy

Foaly groaned. This was a reasonably good move because it expressed the pain and discomfort that he was feeling. It was also a reasonably bad move because it meant that whoever was in the room with him now knew that he was awake. Footsteps came cautiously to the bedside. Foaly could hear breathing just above his ear. He opened his eyes.

And closed them again.

The acne-ridden face of Grub Kelp wearing a trembling smile wasn't always a good one - such as when it was only centimeters away from your own.

Foaly took a deep breath - which caused his ribs to ache in a way they didn't usually - and opened his eyes again. But only one of them seemed to be working properly, and the other was painful so he shut it again and squinted around the room instead. Grub had moved off about a meter and in his place was a matriarchal figure of an elf - all curves and the physical form of a imperious, loud voice. Trouble Kelp was off to the side, almost looking as if he was guarding the doorway - although it is debatable if he was guarding it because it needed guarding from something outside, or as a preventative measure to insure that nobody else had the opportunity to spot his 'Mummy'. Because 'Mummy' was the only person that this elf could be.

Foaly tried to sit up - which is a hard thing for a Centaur to do in the best of times, but is damn-near impossible to do when roaring pain erupts down your side at every movement and most of your six limbs don't seem to be working properly.

Foaly glanced down at his own misused body. And, after a small, disbelieving gasp, fainted.

* * * * *

When he woke it was with a groggy, spent feeling in his head and a terrified memory. His front right leg was gone.

He looked down – his perspective somehow skewed and with a pain in his eyes. His leg was still missing. He didn't know why it was. Or how it was. And… what should he do? Pinching himself seemed like a good idea, but the pain of a pinch wouldn't even be felt through the other pains that were flashing through his body.

His eyes flashed open and focused in on Grub Kelp who was in his apartment for some reason. And then he realised that for some other reason he wasn't in his apartment but in a sterile-looking pastel based room he couldn't recognise.

"What happened?" His voice was accusatory. "What the D'Arvit happened?!"

"I… Foaly, sir, don't you remember it? There was an explosion. In the shuttle port. You were caught in the blast." Said Grub, looking towards him Mummy for agreement.

And then he did remember. He remembered clomping around in frustration for conformation from Julius that the package had arrived topside. He remembered the shuttle assistant asking him to calm down, telling him that fretting wouldn't get his girlfriend back any faster than just waiting. He had laughed at her for assuming he was so worked up about a girlfriend he hadn't seen for a while. He remembered seeing someone he half remembered from a case he and his techs had been involved in – but he hadn't remembered what the relation was and wouldn't have been inclined to talk to the gnome even if he had. He remembered a moment of blinding pain when the entire port had moved in slow motion; his mind prolonging the agony with a split-second of foresight as if he was the hero in a Mud Man movie when the fireball slows and the music becomes muffled by time. He remembered the pain as his entire body caught alight and his fur was seared from his skin. He remembered collapsing on the floor, seeing jumping magic all around him as the magic tried to heal their hosts - in the elves, hybrids, pixies and all the other magical People who had the power that he did not. He almost remembered something else. He almost remembered the moment as the pain blanked out as a heavy part of the now unstable ceiling fell on top of him.

Foaly's voice shook. It was so close to non-existent that it could barely be heard. "I know."

He tried again. "I know. I remember it. I… I wish I didn't. But… Why couldn't someone heal me? Every other species can heal themselves, at least partially, so why didn't someone heal me?"

Trouble spoke up, Foaly tried to lift his head to look at him but the effort was incapacitating – he couldn't move an inch without horrible pain shooting from every nerve-ending in his entire body.

"Whoever made the bomb – that's what it was – is evil. There is no other word for it. He combined Mud Man's C4 - a plastic explosive - with napalm and ball bearings – both Mud Men inventions. The C4 caused the explosion but then the ball bearings ripped everything in their path to shreds and the napalm keep on burning anything it touched. People were getting burnt and they couldn't stop it and they were burning faster than magic could heal them. You weren't the only person who needed magical help. And you aren't the worst injured. By latest counts 47 people have died." His voice softened and lost his usual confidence and flair. "It didn't help that it's only one day away from the first night of the full-moon. The shuttle bay was so crowded."

Foaly's gut twisted at the knowledge of how awful the events really had been. Hearing about all that he has seen and lived through… in such a technical manner, talking about the parts and properties… Foaly shuddered and tried to find something else to talk about. But really, after an event such as that, who can talk about the underground weather?

"Are my eyes injured? I can't really focus properly. And it… it hurts."

"Your left eye should be fine soon enough." Responded Trouble.

Foaly took a deep breath. "And my right?"

"Probably irreversibly damaged by burns. Some transplant devices and prosthetics might give you the impression of vision but your eye … won't work again."

"Be honest with me, Trouble. Tell me how Al'Shav'lit I am now."

"You saw your leg didn't you? Or didn't see your leg. It was mutilated from the explosion and then with the ceiling falling on you… The best the medics could do for you was to amputate."

If Foaly's vision hadn't already been blurred it would no doubt be blurring now.

"And your arm--" Foaly opened his left eye and through the pain willed Trouble not to continue. But Trouble was staring up at the pale ceiling as if it was fascinating, an integral part of the story he was telling.

"The nerves in your left shoulder were damaged by the weight of the ceiling. The arm's numb, almost completely paralysed. With extensive magical treatment it might get better over time but… Well…"

Foaly's face was as white as the sheets he lay in.

Grub tried to lighten the atmosphere with optimism. But we all know that never works in a situation where the mood is so heavy it has its own gravitational pull, spiraling all around it into the depths of depression.

"Well… at least it's not your right arm. You can still write and all that."

"I'm left-handed, Grub." Foaly gave a dark-humoured laugh. "All genii are lefties."

He flopped back down onto the mattress, screwing his eyes tight against reality.

Grub shut his mouth and looked over at his mother for guidance. His Mother shook her head and gestured that they should all leave the room.

On the entire walk back to their house on the other side of Haven the Kelps didn't see anyone outside. All the People in the city were too scared to leave the relative safety of their homes.

Of course, that's what terrorism is supposed to achieve.

* * * * *

The note held between Liam's fingers was growing damp with sweat and moving slightly as his whole hand shook. A blank word document was open; the font-face changed to his preference 'Garamond' and the size adjusted to 12 point. A working title was written along the top, centered and bold. He had even presaved the document on both a floppy disk and his hard drive.

But he still couldn't write it.

He glanced over at what Artemis was doing on the far side of the Library, checking on both Jac and Holly – who both looked quite a bit better than they had before, although neither had yet woken or moved. And saw Artemis steady the thermometer with his right hand while checking on Holly's pulse with his left.

"You're left handed." Liam stated with some surprise, having never really noticed one way or the other in the year that he had known Artemis Fowl.

"Of course I'm a lefty, Brambling. All genii are lefties."

Liam scowled, "There's no need to say that. Yeah, you're smarter than me, but you don't have to be so insulting about it."

Artemis looked up. "Haven't you heard that little myth, Brambling? I thought it was quite amusing myself when I first heard it."

"People actually think that?"

"An old wives-tale that survives because most people never meet a genius, let alone notice what hand that genius might write with."

"Stupid wives tales." Liam looked back at his computer and shook the mouse to get it off the screen-saver. "How can I make anyone believe that America should get involved? How can I make anyone believe that I want America to be involved – Americans stuff everything up?"

"But it all ends up working for them, doesn't it? It's only ever 'stuffed up' from non-American points of view.

"And all you have to do is make people believe you. Just write it as though it's the truth and no one will question it. Little lies don't hurt." Artemis looked up and stared outwards, collecting nostalgic thoughts. "At the Manor there's this little alcove all lit up in the main hall and in it there's a tiny statue of Mary the Virgin. And because of where it is, because of how important it looks, people ask about it. And whenever they do my mother says, with a completely straight face, "Oh, it belonged to Cortez." And everyone believes it. Why would anyone believe that? How could my mother have gotten her hands on Cortez's statue and more importantly, how could it be proven that that statue belonged to Cortez? Why would anyone in their right mind believe that it did? Because there is no reason not to."

"What are you talking about, Fowl?"

"Make it a big lie – people get caught up in the little ones and they become all messy."

"Lie?"

"You'll have to lie about the situation to get America involved. It's not that hard. And it's what the media is always doing."

"I'm not in the media."

"Yes you are. You're giving information and opinions to the general public, trying to influence behavior. How can that not be classified as media?

"Go to hell, Fowl. Send me a postcard." Liam said peevishly.

Only Butler saw Artemis' grin at that comment and he simply raised an eyebrow at his charge to show his disapproval.

* * * * *

Various medics had come in to check on Foaly over the past few hours but he had been impatient and irritable with all of them. And really, who could blame him?

The latest one had strapped a small medi-pac over his right eye to try and help the open socket. And another in his right armpit to try to heal the nerves that had been crushed by the ceiling, leaving his arm paralysed.

Currently he was struggling to find the remote control for the TV that the nurse had kindly placed just out of his reach. He finally got it and twisted around, with a pain in his spine, to point it at the old television on a wall bracket. It flickered on and it was only then that Foaly realised that it was on the wrong angle for a Centaur who was bed-ridden. And, if anyone would stop to think about it, a Centaur wasn't at all well designed for long amounts of time lying down.

He flopped back against the pillow in defeat, only half listening to the noises accompanying the picture that he couldn't quite see.

The sound of an explosion. The sound of heavy, bulky items breaking with ease because of the force pushing them. The sound of gasps and screams. The sound of whimpers, so powerful you could almost see the pain on those invisible faces. The sound of a whinny as something large fell down.

Foaly pulled himself up off the bed; almost falling because of his missing leg and the pain that existed everywhere else – even in the leg that no longer existed. He held onto the bed with his good arm, his useless arm slumped against it, as he stared up at the images flickering on the screen.

He remembered it all and now he could see it all again.

When the broadcast was finished Foaly's arm buckled and he fell to the floor. He still hadn't moved twenty minutes later when a medic came to check on him. He just sat there, watching it all on the screen and in his mind. Repeated images of the explosion, the strangely still pictures of fairies looking for loved ones, helping out, crying on unknown shoulders. It all ran over his head, not registering in his brain but in his tear-ducts.

It's times like this that the similarities between the Mud Men and the People can be seen more easily than their differences.

* * * * *

Butler picked his way across the room to stand in front of Commander Root. Even though it was past noon – midnight for a fairy – the fairy was still awake. He had barely moved at all since collecting Holly's antidote from Tara and reading the message that came with it. Butler was worried. And even if he wasn't worried enough to interfere, he was curious. He had never thought that the Commander would act like this.

"Commander." Butler nodded as he approached.

"Butler."

There was a moment of silence in which Butler decided to make the first move. "Will you be needing any help to carry out your instructions? I would be happy to do anything I could to help."

Root seemed to see the unworded support – even if he didn't need help Butler would be there with him. "Nothing you can do. Not unless you can put in a good word for me to whoever the ruler of the afterlife happens to be. I've done some bad things in my life - in the name of duty and not. I don't think I could cope with it all again. All it does to your soul… You feel dirty about being alive, about being alive when you've caused so much death. I'm sure you know what I mean. You'd have to."

"Of course, Commander."

Root nodded. Butler sank onto the couch beside him, not saying anything at all.

After a minute or two Root held out the tiny piece of paper with the message on it. It was smudged and crumpled from being held in Root's hand for hours.

Sir Martin Wollemi. 7:30am to 8:45am. Hall of Starsons, Haven. Tuesday, 31st of December.

Although it was doubtful as to how many people in the room would understand what this meant, Butler knew. He felt a rush of sympathy and respect for the elf. This was a traditional message for a sniper who didn't need to know anything more than who to kill and when to kill him. Butler had gotten quite a few of these over the years although, thankfully, none recently.

"Do you know who it is?"

"I remember his name, but I can't quite remember where from. I think he's a leader in one of the guilds. I don't usually pay much attention to the details of the little feuds between the powers of Haven so I can't remember who belongs to which group." Root sighed. "I haven't gotten one of these for 300 years. Lately I've been more worried about being on the other side of an assassination."

"I know what you mean, Julius. Is there any way for you to get out of this?"

"Not as far as I can see. If I don't kill this Wollemi," Butler recognised the effort to put distance between the victim and the killer by using his last name – he had done it himself many times, "Captain Short will die. How could I live with that on my conscious? I… I can do this. Or, at least, I used to be able to do this. I… I value Holly's live more than I value the life of yet another anonymous politician. I have to do it, don't I?"

Butler nodded again in silent agreement – thinking of all the people he would do the same for. It may be the coward's way out but… giving your life for a stranger is a concept thought up by authors who never leave their dingy apartments and producers blinded by Hollywood.

"You won't have to do it, Julius. Artemis will think up a way to cure this disease. I know he will." Butler smiled slightly. "He always does, even if it's against all the odds. The odds don't seem to apply to Master Artemis most of the time."

"You've got that right, Johann. I still have nightmares about being up against him."

"Don't worry about that. He's sworn off exploiting the fairies and maybe he'll change now that his father is back. Or maybe not. We can always hope though, can't we?"

"Hope is a wonderful thing. I hope and pray to all Seven Lords that your Fowl finds a way to cure Holly. Foaly would never let it go if I did anything out of the norm to protect Captain Short. And there are already all these rumours about me having pictures of her in her training outfit in the bottom draw of my desk."

"Right. Rumours..."

Root's grin was forced but at least it was something.

At that moment Artemis almost jumped into the air, swept his samples into a bag and started running out the room. "Butler! I need to get to Dublin Uni."

"Coming, Artemis." Butler stood up and looked back down at Root. "Artemis has something – things will be all right. Get some sleep or else you'll be useless later."

Root nodded. Butler gave the elf's shoulder a slight squeeze then moved out of the room, swiping the car keys off a bench as he passed.

* * * * *

"Master Fowl!" Called the surprised head researcher and professor of the Science Faculty on the Dublin University campus.

Artemis scowled slightly at being interrupted in his quest for some of the heavy duty equipment the Uni's research facilities offered, but he was smiling by the time he had raised his head to meet the eyes of the tall man in an old fashioned suit.

"Professor O'Donell." Artemis gave a slight nod and Butler did the same.

"I didn't expect to see you here for some time – it being so close to Christmas and your father being alive. Isn't that wonderful news?"

"Absolutely. But I really need to work out some of the kinks of a project I've been working on for a while. I can't really get anything done in the term time because my school doesn't have much in the way of technology."

Professor gave Artemis a wink which looked positively painful. "I completely understand, Artemis. You're welcome any time here. In fact I would love if you could come and give your opinions at an environmental conference we will be hosting in the New Year. The insights of a young person would be invaluable. It should prove to be very interesting and enlightening since John Simmons will be talking. He was on a research base on Antarctica – studying the Antarctic marine life."

Butler moved between Artemis and the professor who was now rambling on about a new method for testing polluted water – his personal hobby being marine biology, which he tried to impart on everyone he came across.

"I'm sorry Professor O'Donell, but we have a very strict time schedule to keep to. I believe Artemis has to prepare for a talk about the effects of factory dumping on marine wildlife. If you'll excuse us…"

"Oh definitely! I didn't mean to keep you from your work. I'll see you later, Artemis. We can exchange notes about the chemical situation affecting the fairy penguins, okay?"

"Of course, Professor. I'll visit you next time I'm on campus."

"Sure, Artemis. I'll look forward to it."

When they were far enough away from the professor Artemis breathed out a small 'thank you' to Butler.

"Lets just get this microscope set up for you, Artemis."

Ten minutes later, watching the output from the electron microscope, Artemis breathed out. A hand rose to the screen to trace the patterns. The moment froze.

Artemis knew what to do now. Or at least he knew what it was - and that's equal to knowing what to do when it comes to Artemis Fowl the Second.

* * * * *

Quentin Thyme smiled. It seemed genuine, full of mirth. This doesn't mean that someone has just cracked a good joke or that he is watching a comedy on TV. He's watching TV, but not something which anyone else could possibly consider amusing.

Others were watching it, some had turned their heads away quite early on, some were forcing themselves to watch it, tears running down their cheeks the entire time. Some had excused themselves to go rush to the bathroom to vomit.

In slow motion Quentin's video of the Shuttle port bombing was playing. Over and over again.

Quentin was still smiling, grinning. Jason Palm saw it and had to turn away before his stomach protested yet again.

Up to a certain point in the video Jason could see his friend Basil in the background, slightly to the left. He would never see his friend again. He felt tears stinging his eyes yet again. And the worst thing is that he cared more about the loss of one fairy over all the rest that had died. He felt terrible about not feeling terrible enough.

A sprite seated towards the back felt the same. "Basil died in that you bastard!" He yelled out. Those around him visibly shrunk back from their outspoken colleague.

Quentin turned around to look at the offending fairy. The sprite was shaking with a combination of uncontrollable rage and fear for his own life. He was right to be fearful.

"Lots more shall die. I'm planning on that."

Quentin threw a knife that had appeared in his hand. It landed in the junction between the sprite's wing and his throat.

"Starting with you."

* * * * *

Most people believe that black clothing helps you hide in shadows. It doesn't. Black stands out against shadows. But someone wearing dark green or grey, they blend right in.

If it wasn't midday it's quite possible that this man is knowledgeable and experienced enough that he would be wearing an old grey coat. But since there wasn't any shadows to hide in he hadn't bothered. He was in old jeans and a tight T-shirt with 'Guinness' written across the back.

He blended in as just another human - not at all remarkable. Or he would if he wasn't holding a gun and lying on the roof of the Anthropology building of Dublin University. Aiming at the back door of the Science and Technology block.

The door swung open. Two people came out - a pre-teen boy and a giant of a man.

Before they had reached the third step the sniper fired.

* * * * *

Trisani - ::tries to ignore the 'I LOVE IT's but can't quite, nods like talking to a kid and pats Trisani's head.:: Thanks. And you think that Root's less healthy than Vimes? Have you read Night Watch? Vimes has been having pains in his heart and hasn't told anyone. And mentally, Vimes is a lot more Knurd (too sane) which is very, very unhealthy. I love both of them!

The Seasyngr - Well… I'll think about it. I don't know why anyone would want the clone of Luke Skywalker though. He can't act, he's more of a prop than a character, despite being a genius he doesn't act it… I can't see the appeal. But get back to me after I finish the sequel.

Bride_of_lister - Why did you change your name? And I'm glad you liked his reaction, it was very fun to write it.

Emily-The-Strange1324 - I love reviews. I never ignore them! And I know that Liam has the feel of a Gary-Stu about him sometimes, I'm not offended when people point that out. I see him as a prop rather than a character; I use him to show Artemis' character development. And I'm going over board on the 'being worse than Arty' aspect so that he's looking more like a Gary-Stu rather than less like one.

Spectra16 - I'm hoping to get published. Actually, I'm planning on it. I've already got my first dedication worked out, however sad that might be. 'To Bella Penna - I'm still blaming you.'

Kyoko-san - Gary Stu is the equivalent of Mary Sue but different. He usually is irritable, not instantly liked, dark, brooding ect. All those things that makes a instantly likable main male character.

Ophelia who is insane - As I've already said, I don't have a problem with any of that. Someone else might but I don't.

Ivycreeper - I'm a cruel b*tch who does evil things to characters because I can and you think this is a good thing? Even if it's not good it can be very, very fun. Although I think I took it to extremes in this chapter, didn't I? All the things I wrote in the dedication are very relevant and again I thank you. You'll find out all about the disease in the next chapter.

Becca - Thank God I managed to update before you could hurt me! And don't worry… Holly might get better. If only so that Artemis can gloat about it.

Eleida - I tried to put a light moment in but I couldn't manage it. ::sob:: I really tried…

Butler - Amazingly enough I've been getting slacker when it comes to betaing my work ect. My typing has been getting more accurate.

5|-|! - I love cliffies! They are so much fun to write!

Trisani - By my count you're the 97th review. I've had 3 reviews deleted over the span of this story. Sorry for that. And I've already stolen your glass, see? ::waves a glass about::