Clockwork

ARTEMIS

THIS IS A GIRL EATS WORLD kind of story.

This is a story where a girl swallows the sun and chews up the earth and feasts upon the universe.

This is a story where girl melds with beast until you cannot distinguish the two; she has worn fur and claw to the point where they seem a permanent part of her skin.

This is, of course, Artemis.

THWACK.

She stumbles across the ring, leaning heavily against the ropes.

The crowd cheers.

She ignores them, because all they ever want to see is a good, bloody fight that ends with so much red flowing that it becomes difficult to discern between winner and loser.

Artemis ignores them, because they have no idea what it is like to truly battle.

These opponents of hers have not experienced true fights, not like she has - fights where she is fighting for the sake of fighting and she no longer relishes each blow she deals because it is like giving away a piece of her soul in exchange for every life she takes. Fights where one misstep is the sole determiner between life and death. Fights where the whole world trembles in anticipation because a victory means a better life and a loss means crippling horror. Fights where the aching in her bones will beg her to stop but she must keep on going, she must, she must, she must.

Such is the time she grew up in.

Artemis has no patience for men who bare their chests and pound on them with roars like giant Neanderthals, no patience for those with egos that swell beyond that of their head because they have not experienced the real world, no patience for those with false bravado and a web full of "well, if that was me"s and "i would've done that"s.

She wants to shake the brains of those fools, wants to shake calcium between her wretched bloodied fingers to hear a rattle between those capacious heads.

Try going to war, she wants to scream, and see if you come back a changed man.

War, she has found, will not hesitate to pluck the innocence out of your hands and give it back to you once its been shredded beyond repair.

That is certainly what has happened to Artemis'.

The crowd roars once more.

Dull pounding begins in her ears.

Fine, she spits out a vile gob of blood onto the floor. If it's a fight you want, it's a fight you'll get.

It is rather unclear who she is talking to - the world? the crowd? maybe it's both - but she fingers her pulsing knuckles and wipes the blood from her mouth, feral grin wreathing itself across her face, sharp and biting, just as she is.

She trembles.

Not because she is scared, but because she loves this feeling.

(Artemis has always been a hypocrite. Like father, like daughter, she supposes.)

She has never been able to stay away from the fight, the feeling of wild coursing through her veins, the way her lungs feel like they are on fire, the exhilaration of life flowing through her entire being.

It is a timeless drug for which there is no cure, no way to stop the madness.

(She thinks she could stay drunk on the feeling of adrenaline and electricity coursing through her veins, and for a moment, she forgets that these hands and this body have sinned.)

"Ready to lose, little girl?" her opponent sneers, a man of hulking strength and muscles as big as her face, muscles that could surely snap her in half if he tried.

She snorts.

As if he could even lay a finger on her.

He seems to think that he can easily beat her in this frenzied race, this frenzied meeting where knuckles hunt for skin to strike and where bones crunch upon cartilage and hungry fists seek out blood.

Her veins sing in anticipation, toes tapping out a macabre tune. She lifts a finger to her cheek, only to have it come away red and stinging.

He seems to find this funny.

"Yes, little girl, be afraid."

He also seems to think she is scared.

(She is not.)

She is biding her time. She is on the hunt, a wolf in a girl's body, patient as ever for the last of the pack to come bounding along, to tire, to fall behind.

(She is on the hunt for glory, for blood, for victory. For this stupid man to tremble beneath her feet and cower, as men are supposed to do. Women are the true champions of a world as jagged as this.)

Artemis chuckles darkly, and shrugs.

It has been a long time since she has been little girl.

Stupid woman, yes. Feisty bitch, many times. But little girl? Almost never.

She cocks her head to the side, the weight of her years stumbling on top of her shoulders, and smirks. This only makes him angrier, the nostrils flaring to the size of the sun.

"You forget one thing, mongrel." She looks at the backs of her fingernails disdainfully, disinterested, and out of the corner of her eye, she sees him charge for her.

She grins.

It's showtime.

He lunges forward, fists flying, only to find her occupying the space in between his feet nimbly, his face left unprotected.

Artemis smiles a smile that is all teeth and smart and knowing and devoid of feeling.

His eyes widen in realization, but it is too late.

She rears back, cocks her fist, takes the punch and crunch! goes his nose.

A swift kick to the ankles is rewarded with a satisfying crack! and down he goes.

He falls to the floor in a sickening pile of bone and skin, collapsing unto himself like a Jenga tower - one wrong move, and it all comes crumbling down.

She takes particular pride in the way he groans painfully, and takes no note of the breathy whine when she steps on his chest to keep him down.

"I am not a little girl. It should do you some good to remember that."

She is called the queen of the hunt for a reason; ruthless and cold and unforgiving, Artemis does not rest until her bow has found her target.

She looks out into the crowd, mouth curving into a mean smile and cold eyes boring into the mass of bodies, both arms raised in victory.

Be careful, she wants to say, but this is not what she is paid to do.

The world will consume you if you're not too careful.

Artemis, of course, has consumed the world before it could do the same to her.

Artemis accepts the dull roar of the crowd as her due, enjoying the comforting ache and shrieking in her bones. The wolf inside her snarls in triumph, teeth discolored permanently red and once white fur is stained muddy brown, a reminder of all the things war has taken from her.

At least she still feels something.

She looks out into the crowd, lips pursing.

It is another victory for Lady Artemis and yet --

It feels anything but.

Maybe, Artemis thinks, this is where she realizes that in order to emerge victorious, she must lose a piece of herself with every victory, must lose a piece of humanity to this constant battle of life.

Winning is an addiction Artemis cannot stop coming back to, but at what cost?

When you cannot discern the difference between winning and losing, Artemis sighs, that is when the world has become your friend.