Breaking the Proverbial Prison
Perhaps, one might argue, it would be slightly absurd for someone to turn from the, admittedly already rather ludicrous, life of a teenage criminal mastermind to not that of, only a law abiding existence but to one that embodied the characters of the, well, the non existent stereotypical, "nice guy," kind of adolescent that so many idealistic parents long to have in their charge. But, Artemis Fowl had done this very thing. (Though, to be fair, your average contemporary idealistic parent would probably be slightly concerned if their youth started to resemble young Artemis. In fact, it would be reasonable to speculate that their mental health would decline at a rate faster than that of Holly Short's imaginary, drink-driving, clone as she piloted an imaginary shuttle down E7. And that, to coin a phrase, is saying something.)
Artemis had mellowed. It was a sad reality, but maybe one which was best for those who would come across him. He was no longer seeking the thrills, nor the scrapes, that for the last few years earlier had been present in the escapades that had so poignantly highlighted his existence to the people; Artemis had not lost his natural cheek, nor his stunning intellect he had just lacked the motivation, the will-power and the circumstances to demonstrate them to the rest of the world. It had been around a year since Artemis and Butler had last come face to face with their comrades down below; a year since their well respected associate: the brave, Commander Julius Root had perished at the hands of Opal Koboi. More than that, it had been 5 months – 5 months 1 week 3 days 3 hours 27 minutes to Artemis's degree of accuracy - since he had been contacted by Holly, or the dwarf Mulch Diggums. He had agreed to aid them on a "consultancy" basis and was, reluctantly, prepared to accept the remotest of possibilities that his services simply had not been required for whatever reason. But, what he was most certainly not able to accept, was the idea that two people, who had become his best – his only – friends were not even willing to spare five minutes of their time for him.
He had mused the possibility that the communication device Holly had provided him was defective. No, he had examined, expertly, every millimetre of magical circuitry within the device. Perhaps, Sool has, somehow, found out that they were working with me and has put a stop to it. It was possible, but he felt the man's ignorance would never allow him to make such an accurate deduction.
There was only one thing for it; there was no good moping around doing no sin but doing no good… He would have to rediscover himself; he would have to bring the adventures to him; he would have to bring the people to him. He would have to bring himself to Holly, Holly and Mulch.
Artemis always used to find high-level Mathematics a casual endeavour; there was a certain satisfaction to solving complex formulas that the worlds most established Mathematical minds did not even dare to attempt. But ST Bartleby's maths department, like all its other departments, lacked a certain magic. It was all very well doing difficult trigonometry at the age of 3, but "cos 24" didn't exactly stimulate him anymore. However, today he was not giving his full attention to completing the laughable university level textbook that Mr Franks, his "teacher," had, begrudgingly, supplied him with; today he was watching the clock – Butler was late. His bodyguard had agreed 2.20 pm – it was now 2.22 pm, most unsatisfactory Artemis would have to have a word with his most trusted associate about time keeping. The door flung open, Artemis stood up, casually making for the door, collecting his belongings as he went. - Pretending to ignore the scuffle between 4 teachers, 3 grounds men and Butler. The seven men, reasonably well built by most people's standards, were all clinging on to various, extremities. Artemis strode across the room, apparently oblivious to the stunned, confused and entertained faces of his classmates. When he finally reached the entrance to the rectangular prison he mimicked brushing off invisible dirt from his pristine school uniform, still ignoring the fight, and turned, smiling, to, an open mouthed, Mr Franks, "It's been err… a pleasure. Most enlightening, indeed… By the way, in case you were wondering, x equals 17.476." He added glancing quickly at the equation Mr Franks had been in the process of writing upon the flash new electronic white board.
"Now, gentleman," He began. - At last acknowledging the wails of the staff members who had always been fighting a losing battle to stop Butler gaining access to the classroom. "If you would kindly remove yourselves from my bodyguard, I will be on my way. I do no want him damaged." - It was difficult to tell if he was joking.
"And, if he is, I will be sending you the bill." He added.
Butler looked disapprovingly at him – Artemis may have faded but his arrogance had remained very much intact. But, nonetheless, he kicked the final irritant, deputy head teacher Smith, away from his left ankle. "Oh, my belated Prince Charming, so you've finally decided to come and rescue me have you? I make you two minutes and twenty three seconds late." Butler was genuinely offended.
"Nonsense, I am on time to the second; I even took into account, when making my calculations, how long these flies would slow me down so that I could make my dramatic entrance at exactly twenty past." He lowered his wrist into Artemis's eye line.
"Well, in future, we are synchronising watches," Artemis replied. (In a tone, which implied that he was non-to happy about conceding.)
"Fine. So how is my favourite Damsel in distress?" Artemis was worried; Butler had developed a wit. There would be time for worrying about that later. For now, his own needed exercising.
"Later Butler, later. Now, goodbye, goodbye, my good educators. You possess little of my fondness, but my, sadly, money you have."
He had the whole room's attention and was looking down at the crumpled pile of St Bartleby's teaching staff, which Butler had carelessly splattered upon the cliché hairy pink carpet that all British schools seem to have fitted, for no apparent reason. He waved a hand in the air, in a way that mocked the ceremonial potential of the situation, and addressed the body of the room. "Farewell, my classmates; farewell St Bartleby's." As he strode out, down the corridor, amidst the instinctive incessant chanting of his peers ("Farewell, Artemis,") and,amidst the approaching sirens of police cars, Artemis smiled to himself, in the recycled Irish air.
He was out, and he was bubbling with ideas. He thought fondly, sadly, of Holly, Mulch and Foaly who he hoped to soon fall his gaze upon, and Julius – who he wouldn't.
The people beware: Artemis Fowl is back, and he's coming…