Artemis stared at his computer, unblinking.

The screen of his PC flickered in response, unhelpfully.

Sighing, he rubbed the bridge of his nose in annoyance, screwing his eyes shut. He could feel the beginning of a migraine brewing, and he didn't have time to turn his monitor off for an hour. He'd already wasted the better half of his weekend going down the rabbit hole of the mirrored contact lenses he and the Butlers had woken up to around three months ago. None of them had remembered going to sleep with the contacts on, and no one in their ranks could recall even purchasing the lenses.

He suppressed a shudder. One of his classmates at St. Bartleby's had experienced the misfortune of falling asleep with his contacts in during the week leading up to midyear exams, and the boy ended up needed to wear prescription sunglasses for the rest of the month. Artemis counted himself (and the Butlers) lucky enough to have avoided a similar fate. Nasty business.

Opening his eyes reluctantly, he scowled at the email thread he'd been looking at. He'd gone through the bank statement for nearly every account he held, and he'd managed to trace a series of small sums of euros that had been wired out of his account to an optician's office outside of Cork. Artemis had jumped at the chance to pursue the only real lead he had regarding the contacts, and it was thus that found himself locked in a correspondence that was growing more and more infuriating with each response he received.

The man in question was named Joe Tiernan, and he wasn't exactly tickled by their exchange, either.

Joe Tiernan did not appear to know what to make of Artemis. Tiernan had been fitting and supplying folks with eyewear for the past twenty years, and his daughter had just succeeded in hounding him to get a computer for the office. His girl had said having email would be good for customers who lived more than an hour or two away from them, and Tiernan caved, putting down the down payment on the damn thing. However, he'd quietly harbored the opinion that this new tech business seemed to be more trouble than it was worth.

When he'd received an email from a former customer asking for the specifics surrounding a purchase they'd made for a few novelty contacts, he'd briefly pulled his Emma into the office to show her that she'd made the right call on the computer. She'd smiled at him indulgently, and Tiernan had set to work figuring out the specifics of his customer's case.

Now, three days into the conversation, Tiernan was coming to the realization that it was quite possible that he'd be willing to throw the damn device out the window if it meant he never had to exchange another keystroke with this 'Mr. Fowl'.

Now, the man hadn't cursed at him or anything of that ilk. No, if you were to read the entire email thread, it appeared that the two of them were quite cordial. The devil was in the details, though. Specifically, Tiernan was now expected to recall the exact details of his sale to this Fowl person, as, if Tiernan had read the past few messages correctly, this customer was asserting he had no recollection of ever purchasing eyewear from the office. At first, Tiernan had assumed that Mr. Fowl was the victim of identity theft. Perhaps purchasing custom eyewear was a bizarre way to test if a stolen credit card worked, but Tiernan had heard of stranger cases. Yet Fowl made it clear that that wasn't his issue — no, Fowl had received the contacts (which worked perfectly, of course, Tiernan thought only a tad smugly), and that rather ruled out the possibility of an eyesight-impaired conman.

And so they were back at square one, with Fowl haranguing him for more details about the purchase, and Tiernan asserting time and time again that he couldn't remember anything else about the job. The only thing that stood out about the case was that Fowl hadn't come in for a fitting or anything of the like — Tiernan had never even heard this customer's voice. His money ended up being wired over without a problem at the start of the job, so Tiernan hadn't pried. Sure, he'd been curious about the strangeness of requesting three sets of mirrored contacts, but it paid to hold one's tongue when it came to eccentric customers. Now, he scratched his upper lip absentmindedly, that policy appeared to be biting him in the arse.

Tiernan tried to avoid three things in life: going to bed later than nine, bad seafood, and the news. Despite making it a point to leave the paper tucked neatly in its thin, plastic wrapping when he received it each morning, he did feel as though he'd heard the name Fowl before. He was either a businessman or a politician. Maybe both, Tiernan thought, fingers hovering poised over the keys of the computer. But this Fowl was definitely rich.

The optician worried his bottom lip absentmindedly. He had a theory about what had happened, but there wasn't a way to say it tactfully .

"Dear Mr. Fowl," he typed out, humming along to the clacking of the keyboard. "I am glad that you find the contacts I have sent you to be in order. If I am to understand correctly, you do not wish to pursue a refund, but you do want further details surrounding how and when you placed the order (as your recollection of the purchase seems to be failing). I have provided all that I remember surrounding your initial order of the contacts, and I hope that I've clarified any problems surrounding the case."

Tiernan took a deep breath. "I mean no offense, but I would ask if you can recall any specifics surrounding the timeframe of late March. As it appears as though this isn't a case of identity theft, perhaps a close friend used your card to buy the contacts or work exhaustion led to a memory lapse. Best, Joe Tiernan, Cork Lux Eyewear".

He pressed send.

That was about as close as he could get to asking just how inebriated this fellow had to be in order to buy himself custom contacts and then promptly forget about it.

The rich had a tendency to think just about anything was gas were they drunk enough, and he wouldn't be surprised if Fowl had bought his damn contacts on a dare from some business buddies during some after work social. Tiernan grunted disapprovingly, moving to get up from his desk.

His inbox pinged.

Sighing, he settled back down into the chair. Clicking the new message icon, he opened his newest response from Fowl.

"My dearest Mr. Tiernan," he read. "I must inform you that I do not have any friends, making your proposition of this affair being a prank quite unlikely."

Tiernan blinked.

He rose up from his chair, ignoring the rest of the message as he walked slowly into the small break room to put the kettle on. He'd been planning on saving the last bag of chamomile for a post-dinner treat to send himself off to sleep tonight. Oh well, he sighed, pouring himself a mug and moving reluctantly back to the computer room.

He tapped the spacebar to wake the screen back up. Taking a sip from his warm drink, the heat fogging his glasses, and he continued to read.

"Furthermore," he read, using his free hand to push his glasses back up from their precarious position at the bridge of his nose. "I am afraid I must disappoint you in that I do not believe I have ever suffered from 'work exhaustion', as you so eloquently put it. I am fourteen years old, sir. That's a tad young for turning to substance abuse in order to cope with managing a business empire, don't you think? I hope I do not offend, but I believe this conversation might be more fruitful were we to meet in person. I presume your shop still remains open until 8 P.M. on weekends unless your website is inaccurate. Please expect my presence sometime in the next few hours. Best regards, Artemis Fowl."

Tiernan brought the mug up to his face, breathing in the aromatic smell of the tea before taking a long, deliberate swig.

"Good lord," he said simply, letting his hands curl around the warmth of the cup.

Juliet flopped down upon her bed, admiring her handy work. Tacked up on the lime green walls of her room was a mass of posters and decals boasting the visages of various wrestlers, all of them striking a pose or flexing their prominent biceps. There was no common color unifying the assorted costumes each of the athletes wore, therefore creating the unintended effect of giving the wall's viewer a headache if they looked at it too long.

She beamed. It was perfect.

She heard a knock, and the disturbance caused the right side of a headshot she'd taped up to the door to fall free from its position. Juliet gave the drooping poster a look of pity before sitting up.

"Come in," she called out, swinging her legs up so that she was cross-legged.

The door swung upon, and the well-oiled hinges moved silently. Standing in the entrance was Artemis with a black leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder, and he looked as stiffly formal as ever.

"Have I caught you at a busy moment?" Artemis asked as he walked in, shooting a prefatory glance at the mess of tape and thumbtacks on the ground.

"I didn't say you could come in, Artemis," she huffed, grabbing one of her throw pillows and setting it on her lap to fiddle with.

"I apologize, but it's urgent," he explained, resting a hand on the wooden bedpost knob of her bed frame.

"What type of urgent are we talking about here?" Juliet narrowed her eyes, suspicious.

"Nothing dangerous," he promised, holding up a hand to assure her. He paused. "Presumably."

"Cool," she rolled her eyes, leaning back into the stack of pillows on her bed and pulling her knees up. Shifting so that she was still looking at him, she patted the bed to invite him to sit. "Have you asked my brother?"

Sitting down gingerly, Artemis moved the throw pillow she'd abandoned.

"…No," he coughed, looking away. "I'd rather not bother him with such a small errand."

"I thought we were talking about 'urgent' matters, though," Juliet raised an eyebrow. Suddenly, she lit up, pushing herself up to better look at Artemis. " Oh , are you two fighting?"

Artemis made a face, furrowing his brow. "Of course not," he frowned. He paused, tilting his head as he thought. "I just… thought a break from our usual level of excitement is well overdue, that's all."

Juliet winced. Although Juliet knew her opinion was colored by the fact he was her older brother, in her eyes Domovoi was untouchable. In spite of this, however, in the past few months he'd seemed constantly weary, as though the strain of all his years of having to remain strong had at long last caught up to him. Just as Juliet was determined not to bring up his new state, so was he determined to ignore it. As much as she hoped he was getting better, the fact that Artemis had noticed something was amiss signaled the opposite — her brother was no doubt trying as hard as he could to prevent Artemis from seeing him so fatigued.

"Yeah, he does need a break, I think. Don't," she fixed him with a meaningful look. "Let him know that you're making him take a backseat to the action for a while, though. He's seemed off these past few months, and the last thing he needs is to feel like you're forcing him to take an early retirement."

"I know that," Artemis insisted. "Hence why I'm trying to ask for your help discreetly ."

She tossed her braid over her shoulder. "Fine. What is it that you're so worked up over?"

"It connects to your brother, actually. He started to slow down a few months ago — the same time when the three of us woke up in the manor with contacts in our eyes."

"So we're on the conspiracy theory stage of things, then," she said thoughtfully. "Do we have our guy already?"

Artemis shook his head, clearly displeased. "No. That's not why I currently am in need of your help. So far, I've only found the seller — the contacts were accounted for within my bank statements. I must have bought the contacts."

"You could've been hacked," Juliet shrugged, and Artemis' frown deepened.

"I'm not being arrogant — I've looked over my accounts extensively. There was no backdoor through the security measures I've put into place, no weakness in the bank's firewall, no clandestine deals made that could have circumvented the control of my assets. I've gone over every explanation I could fathom, and the one that requires the least amount of imaginative jumps is that I bought the contacts."

"And you're saying that you just… forgot buying them?" Juliet raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"Like we all forgot having contacts placed on our eyes? The whole incident makes close to no sense at all, Juliet. Of course Ockham's razor is unsatisfyingly dull here, but this is still the explanation that required making the least amount of assumptions in order to fill in the gaps of my knowledge."

She held up a hand, motioning him to stop. He looked at her quizzically.

"I'll take you to meet the guy who you think sold us the contacts," she started.

"I'm sensing there's a 'but', however," Artemis narrowed his eyes shrewdly.

"Obv," she grinned. Artemis groaned but bade her continue.

"We're stopping to run a bit of an errand after."

"Can you not ask Butler to lend you his car for that later?" he pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

"Can't you just ask Butler to drive you?" she countered.

" Fine ."

"Brilliant!" she brightened, reaching a hand over to clap a hand on his shoulder. "I'll get a car and you find the keys, yeah?"

He dangled a pair of keys in front of her, dropping them into her lap. "I've already picked out the car that will work best for today, but I appreciate your offer to chip in."

Juliet gingerly picked up the keys, holding them between two fingers. "Oh. Is it a sports car?"

" No . The whole point of this arrangement we have is to make it out of the house and get back before anyone notices."

"You chose a shite car, didn't you?"

Artemis sat up from the bed, adjusting his tie and patting out the wrinkles in his suit. "It's a fine car, Juliet," he insisted, already moving for the door.

Juliet snorted. "Doubtful."

He'd chosen a shite car.

The two of them were packed into the unused 1981 silver DeLorean, which was a sports car that Fowl Sr. had purchased on a whim before everyone realized within a year that it was really kind of a crap car. It didn't have to be a great car, though — it just had to be a car that neither Fowl Sr. nor her brother would notice was missing in the next couple of hours. It was thus that the DeLorean reversed out of the Fowl's garage and spluttered down the main road towards the motorway for the first time in its existence, fighting Juliet all the way as she tried to pilot the thing.

The car was really quite bad.

The only thing it had going for it was the fact that its radio worked fine. Once Fowl manor was safely hidden behind them in a mass of trees, Juliet reached over to the stereo and fumbled impatiently with the knobs and dials until she was satisfied that the voice of the lead singer was sufficiently rattling the windows of the car.

It had taken only about 30 seconds before Artemis huffed pointedly and spun the volume dial all the way down.

"Perhaps we should keep the volume at a less… distracting level," he remarked delicately.

"It's kind of meant to be distracting," Juliet rolled her eyes. "That's kind of the point of this kind of music."

Crossing his arms, Artemis leaned against the window. "Lovely."

Juliet turned the dial back up. "It's Siouxsie and the Banshees, you herb."

He looked out towards the road. "They certainly sound like a group of banshees," he muttered under his breath.

She cackled at that, startling him. "You're such an old man!" she snorted.

He uncrossed his arms, turning to face her. "You can't just call anyone who'd prefer to play music at below the threshold of causing hearing loss old. "

Juliet briefly took her eyes off the M8 to shoot him a teasing grin. "Eh, I think I'm justified in calling you old, thanks very much."

" Your brother would agree with me about the volume were he here. Is he an 'old man?" Artemis countered, reaching for the volume dial again.

"Um, yeah. Both of you were practically born as tiny, baby curmudgeons," Juliet scoffed, reaching blindly over to the passenger side to try to pinch his cheek. He swatted her hand away, clicking his tongue in annoyance.

"Fine, then. If I might borrow a phrase: ' whatever ,'" he shot back, turning to look back out the window so she that couldn't see the beginnings of a smile creep onto his face.

Juliet hummed contentedly, looking at Artemis in the warm light of the setting sun. "How long do you think you'll be talking to the glasses man?"

"Oh, Mr. Tiernan? Not more than an hour, hopefully," Artemis looked back at her. "What about your… wrestling thing?"

"I'm just talking to the group's owner about if they need another girl, so it'll be quick, don't worry," Juliet explained.

"I think I can gather why you didn't want to ask Butler to drive you there," Artemis said after a moment, studying her. "I'm not sure they're quite ready for you."

Juliet laughed, leaning one arm on the door and steering with the other. "Yeah."

"Letting you into that building should be an immediate Healthy and Safety Authority violation."

"They're at least sort of legit, Artemis. Everyone in the troupe's been doing it for a while, anyway. I'm not going to end up pulverizing anyone accidentally," she held up her free hand. "Scout's honor."

"At least I'll know that betting on you is a sure thing," Artemis quipped.

"See?" she grinned. "There's money to be made here."

"I do like to keep an eye out for potential business opportunities, of course," he held a hand to his heart in an exaggerated fashion.

" Of course ," she responded playfully in kind, putting a haughty Oxford affectation on. Artemis chuckled, sitting back in his seat.

A knock sounded at the front of Tiernan's small shop, and he flinched. Oh dear, he fretted, looking at his office.

The knock sounded again, and he heard the muffled sound of arguing. Running a hand over the rough whiskers of his grey-flecked beard, he scratched his chin nervously. Moving reluctantly to the door, he peered through the peephole.

On the doorstep in front of his building stood a slight, pale teen boy and a towering young woman. Both were wearing dark mirrored glasses.

"I'm knocking again," the young woman said, throwing her braided blonde hair over her shoulder decisively.

"He said he'd be in today," her companion furrowed his brow.

"I'll bet he's just avoiding you," she reached out to bang on the door again, and Tiernan leaned away so that the door wouldn't be rattling so close to his face. He looked back through the small opening.

"Why? I'm a paying customer, and he is expecting me."

"Yeah, expecting you to be a piece of work. How were you getting in contact with him — phone or email?"

"Email."

"There's something about your business writing style that is so obnoxious," she said, leaning close the side of the peephole that faced the outside. Tiernan flinched backward unwittingly and then relaxed. The thing was one-sided — it wasn't as if she could see him.

"I find it's better to overcompensate a tad, or future meetings get derailed by pointless conversations about where my parents are."

"I ask myself that question a lot if I'm being honest," she studied the door thoughtfully. "Also, mate, I can see you in there."

At that, Tiernan flushed. Cheeks warmed, he reached for the doorknob, taking a breath to compose himself.

"Ah, you must be Artemis," he opened the door, plastering on a smile. "Please, come in, young man, and…?" he looked at Juliet, words failing him.

"Juliet," she grinned lazily, twirling a strand of her hair around a finger and putting a hand on her hip. "I'm the enforcer."

Tiernan's smile shrunk a few molars. "I see," he said, gritting his teeth.

"She's not my bodyguard or anything of the sort, don't worry," Artemis clarified, and she nodded. "I value my safety, but I did not feel this meeting merited such precautions. Juliet is present for transportation-related purposes, predominantly."

"He can't drive," Juliet stage-whispered, and Artemis gave her a dirty look.

"I've told the man I'm fourteen, Juliet. Surely he understands that."

Tiernan coughed. Both Juliet and Artemis turned to look at him.

"Well, maybe we should take this inside if you're ready," he offered, stepping aside. "I'll grab the records I have of the sale and we can go over them again, how about that?"

Artemis nodded and stepped inside, with Juliet following close behind. Tiernan moved to close the door behind them, taking a moment to compose himself.

"Sir, I'm going to need a good meter between yourself and my charge and me at all times," Juliet said, sternly holding up a hand.

"What?" Tiernan blanched.

"That's how Butler usually handles things, yeah?" she was looking at Artemis now, who was already looking for a place to sit on the couch in the waiting room. He looked back up at her.

"You're the spitting image," he simpered sarcastically, sitting down and taking his dark leather messenger bag off his shoulder.

"If you wouldn't mind getting the papers…?" Artemis reminded Tiernan, looking up from his task of going through the files he'd brought with him for a moment. The older man started, forcing out a quick apology before heading deeper into the building to find his things.

The things he did for the business, Tiernan thought, throwing a desperate gaze up to the ceiling.

"Are we telling him about your amnesia theory?" he heard the young woman say from inside the other room.

I think I ought to get rid of my computer, he thought after a moment. He shot a glance behind him.

"I don't see how that's any of his business, Juliet," Tiernan heard Artemis reply haughtily.

Yes, that's what I should do, he decided.