W H A T

D R E AM S

M A Y

C O M E

- Dim Aldebaran -

For in that death of sleep what dreams may come…must give us pause.

"Hamlet"

William Shakespeare

There wasn't anything peculiar about his bedroom, which was precisely the problem. No eccentric posters on the wall, no squeaky hinges or sticky drawers, no mismatched colors in the décor. Artemis Fowl's bedroom, in its normality, was the most abnormal thing you could ever imagine.

Let us start with the desk. There was a photograph of his father on it from God knows when, sometime when he still had his hair, with a fishing pole and a trout. Now, this could be taken as the abnormal normality the abnormally normal bedroom was missing, but only if you knew Artemis, only if you knew his father, and only if you knew that the picture was just a sophisticated cut-out of daddy-dear's head pasted onto a fisherman. Why Artemis bothered, I can't possibly fathom.

To right of the desk were three doors, occupying the entire wall. They were made of oak, and had matte gold knobs and hinges. From left to right, they led to the piano room, the bathroom, and the closet. Now, I suppose you could say that most people don't have a piano room at all in their house, much less one with exclusive access via a teenager's bedroom, but without breaking the ten-digit code you wouldn't know there was a piano room at all, and remain quite oblivious to this particular abnormality.

To the left of the desk was the window, with some nice burgundy drapes that fit perfectly with the cream décor. A bit of Irish sunlight, of that gold color peculiar to the Emerald Isle, pooled in the little imperfections of the Cabernet-red coverlet. There was, I suppose, a slight peculiarity in the pillow, which had a stain from God knows where, but it wasn't abnormally abnormal enough to make the room appear normally normal.

It is on this bed this story shall focus, indirectly. No, Artemis is not sleeping in it with a Certain Butler, either of them, or with a Certain Fairy. Shame on you. Nothing exciting is happening between the sheets, which must be quite depressing for them since they never have anything interesting happening to them besides the occasional wet dream. The pillows have all the fun in this little story, since upon them Artemis rests his head, and they get to play the voyeur for all his delightful dreams.

He had one that was particularly fascinating. This is approximately two weeks after that despicable mindwipe, just to tell you, so when he wakes up he is terribly confused, and puts it off to the pesto he ate the night before.

There is always something suspect about an intellectual on the winning side.

Vaclav Havel

Have you ever played chess? A delightful game, really. Everyone thinks it's the game of choice for genii. I mean, with all those variables…

Well, to tell the truth, Artemis wasn't too fond of chess. He was damn good at it, just like he was damn good at everything, but that didn't mean he was fond of it. I'm sure you're damn good at something too, and when people tell you that you feel like throwing the nearest saucepan at them. (Artemis, of course, does not throw saucepans. He is too good for saucepans.)

Artemis' favorite game was Clue.

No particular reason why. Now, I could say it was because Artemis liked the whole blame-game, or I could say it was because Artemis liked good wholesome family time. But then I'd be a liar. Which I'm not. The truth is, I have no idea why Artemis liked Clue more than the game of kings. Maybe it was his fantasy to be killed in the kitchen with a rope by some scarlet lady. It's not my fantasy, I can tell you that, but I suppose it's better than being killed On The Job.

"I bet he did it," said Juliet. She wore a little white and black number that most people refer to as 'the sexy French maid outfit.' Artemis is no exception. Even in real life he might admire the view.

"Nonsense!" roared Root. Poor guy. Artemis' imagination had not been kind to him; he strongly resembled a stick of half-melted butter with tomato soup dribbled over it.

It is strange to think a centaur can look dashing, but it's true. He wore a fine suit of royal purple on his human body, which went along quite handsomely with his chocolate equine two-thirds "I second that notion," Foaly said. "Look at his red face. He's obviously lying." He had a little gold wristwatch tucked into a pocket, peeking out as if it was the sun, nervous for its very first dawn.

"Eww," replied the scarlet lady, applying a gloss that would have made a geisha grimace. Opal bared her teeth as people looked at her. "He's too ugly."

"Cudgeon isn't a suspect either under that logic," Foaly replied, adjusting his gold foil hat. It had a pretty purple silk ribbon curling around its base. "Yet he has one of the better reasons to have killed Mr. Black."

Cudgeon wore a rather ugly green suit that made his complexion all the worse. If Root was a stick of half-melted butter, Cudgeon had been entirely melted, solidified, scooped into a snowman with a clump of brownish mold on top and draped with an unappetizing layer of pesto. 'Ugly' would be flattery of the highest nature.

"Tut tut," Opal replied, readjusting the skimpy red number she wore to reveal a bit more. For petite pixy, she had quite a lot. "You forget motive is only half the problem."

Holly sniffed loudly into a handkerchief, tucking it into the sash of her dress when she was done. "Everyone was here," she pointed out, sniffling, "and no one has an alibi."

Artemis briefly guffawed to see her in such attire—a dress…? Perhaps most shocking was that she looked damn good in it too. The rich Indian blue complimented her skin tone surprisingly well. She looked almost… exotic; auburn hair, nutty skin, and then a dress that made her glow with beauty.

"That's not cool," said Juliet. Her hair was done up in a neat bun with jade pins sticking out at various angles. It looked as if a small lawn was growing on the backside of her head. "No one has alibis?"

Opal and Cudgeon exchanged an embarrassed glance, Opal turning the shade of her dress.

Foaly grinned. "Really? Well, if no one has an alibi, we have to arrest the most likely people…"

Opal shot him a glare that would send most donkeyboys galloping back home to the stable. "I have no alibi."

"Really?" Root asked, reaching for his Neutrino at his side. "In that case, I shall I have to arr—"

"I was with her!" Cudgeon squealed, pointing wildly at Opal. "We were in the study!"

Juliet stared at the two of them. "Uh, eww."

"It wasn't like that!" Opal protested, jumping up from her seat. "I mean, what would I be doing with an ugly git like him? His face looks like it's melted off and… oh, yucky."

Cudgeon stared at her. "You said you enjoyed my—company."

Root stared between the two of them in disgust. "No fighting here," he said. "If you want to talk this over, go outside where we can't hear you."

Opal and Cudgeon left rather hurriedly.

"Uh, sir?" Holly asked tentatively, raising a gloved hand as if in school. "I don't think that was a very good idea."

"You're just a suspect," Foaly replied, munching thoughtfully on a carrot. "What do you know about anything?"

"Root's a suspect too," Holly pointed out. "And so are you, for that matter."

"D'Arvit, I'm not a suspect!" Root roared. "Why would I kill Mr. Black?"

Foaly thoughtfully munched on a carrot. "Because he has repeatedly put your prized officers at risk, not to mention our entire civilization, because he has humiliated you on several occasions, because you have problems with rage, but, most importantly, because he's an arrogant git."

Root sputtered, nearly dropping his fungus cigar.

Before he could actually say anything, Foaly meandered on to Juliet, waving a carrot in her general direction before snapping off its end with oversized molars. "You. You've been the 'maid' in the house for several years, always being ordered around, told what to do, ignored. You were practically raised by the Fowls—yet when he came along, he got all the attention, stealing it away. He also stole your brother away, and has nearly killed him too many times to count. Maybe you got a little sick of all this, and decided to end the affair quite nicely—no one would guess, you're the loyal maid—"

"It's not true!" Juliet protested. "I would never hurt him—"

"Wrong!" Foaly whinnied delightedly. "When I was going through his memories, I saw you punch him on several occasions."

"That was when we were short, silly and stupid," she snapped. "It was mutual."

"Bloody noses are rarely mutual, my dear." Foaly crunched another carrot—and before Juliet could raise another complaint, he twirled the stub towards Holly. "You."

Holly raised her eyes from her lap. Her lips had a definite pout to them. "It wasn't me, sir," she said quietly. "I would never hurt him."

Foaly played with his carrot a bit before tucking it into his pocket. "Yet you've punched him on two occasions now."

"Not with the intention of hurting him."

She was doing a better job of countering the arguments—but, Artemis noticed, that was because Foaly was making it easier for her.

"He shot you when you were defenseless, imprisoned you, and inflicted psychological torture on you."

"Forgiven," she replied quietly. She seemed composed, her hands folded in her laps like two wrens in the winter, and she watched them, passive.

He chomped down on the carrot noisily before continuing. "He has endangered your race several times. A mind wipe will not necessarily prevent such a thing from occurring in the future. Wouldn't it be nice, never to have to hear from Artemis again?"

"He's changed."

"Ah, but the C-Cube was an accident!"

"He's changed," she repeated.

His grin was wide. "You've seen the security vids. You know as well as I do that he's reverted.

"He's changed," she insisted stubbornly, still staring down at her lap.

"Or maybe—" he seemed especially delighted by this thought "—the thought of him being there without the knowledge of you was too much to bear, and you just couldn't get your mind off of him—"

"No."

He continued regardless, a torrent: "Tell me, Holly, did he see you before you killed him, did he even recognize you? Any regrets? None?" Holly stood. "Oh, I see you have a few—"

The centaur staggered backwards as Holly punched him in the nose. Her face was red, and her eyes glinted oddly. "I didn't kill him!" she said fiercely. "I changed him, I changed him! He'll be a better person now, he'll be better—"

"But he's dead," Root said, fingering his cigar thoughtfully. "Of course he'll be better; he can't do anything wrong now."

Holly whirled and faced him. "Sir, I'd never—"

"Innocent until proven guilty," Foaly said cheerfully. "And my my my, isn't it a pity we can't prove anything."

"I didn't do it!" Holly protested, her hands fists at her sides. "I wanted him to be a better person—I wanted to change him—I wanted those changes to be permanent—"

"If wishes were fishes," Foaly mused, "I'd have to buy a gondola it get over it all."

She turned to Juliet. "Please believe me, I didn't kill him, I wouldn't—"

Juliet looked into her eyes, then looked away.

"It was Opal and Cudgeon," she said, pointing out the door. "I know it. They both hate him."

Silence.

"Please believe me," she pleaded. "I'd never hurt him."

"Prove it," Juliet said softly.

"I—" Holly stood silent, defeated. "I can't."

"You're under arrest," Root said softly, "for the murder of Artemis Fowl."

Nothing fixes a thing so intensely in the memory as the wish to forget it.

Michel de Montaigne

Now, you see, Artemis woke up with no recollection of ever meeting these strange folks. You can tell why he put the dream off to Juliet's pesto. The only good thing that came out of this dream was that Artemis swore never to eat pesto again, which is very good indeed since someone tried to poison it once at a business conference and feed it to him.

However, he also came away with a strange feeling of dread—this Holly fellow seemed to be quite the black widow character. Now, dreams are very deceptive things, always muddling personalities and the like, but he could not help but feel unease. Was someone out there watching him, praying for him to be the good little boy his father so wanted—while he broke her heart with every bankruptcy, every violated bank, every stolen necklace. How much heartbreak could she take before she came out of the shadows and took her vengeance…?

The question haunted him, the face a ghost in his mind, until he reminded himself rather harshly that he had stopped believing in Santa Claus when he was a year old. Good behavior was not rewarded, bad behavior was not punished. He was Artemis Fowl; he could do whatever he pleased.

So he forgot that quixotic game of Clue.

:i:

My laptop died recently, and I'm working on retyping all of this (I had this whole bloomin' thing done…) This is a three-part fic, each featuring a dream, posted as separate chapters.

Constructive criticism is a Godsend, really. This is really rough, and whatever you have will be wonderful.

This is an entry to the Criminality DecJan challenge. Information about it can be found via the Crim link on my bio.

OOCness is accountable to the fact it's a dream.

Updates will be posted on my personal forum.