AN: This concerns one of my TYH characters who may show up in a proper fic at some point. For now, here's his opening story.
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DMSE&R's halls were a forbidding place. Perhaps it was a trick of the eye, perhaps it was psychosomatic, but even the slab-sided walls of Generic Surface seemed darker and more claustrophobic than anywhere else in HQ. Occasionally there would be a doctor or two wandering past, fresh from conducting medical experiments in front of live audiences of students frantically taking notes with stationery stained with glitter. The overall effect of the teaching hospitals was akin to Emily The Strange taking over Lisa Frank, a pairing that the DBS had dealt with on multiple occasions (to no-one's great surprise).
As another class filed out into the corridors, talking about the lecture and brushing errant red sparkles off their jackets, an unlikely figure pushed through them. He was a human boy of around fourteen, though his exact age was difficult to determine. The manner of his dress was unusual too; with his buff overcoat, dark green jacket, cream waistcoat, white muslin shirt, elaborately knotted cravat, top boots, stout cane, and actual honest-to-God pantaloons, he looked like he had stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. The primary reason for this was because he had done exactly that -- or at least, he would have done, had Jane Austen been given to writing urban fantasy novels.
As he made his way slowly through the crowd, the lecturer espied a blank space where would normally be a head, or at the very least some intimidating manner of pseudopodia. He made his way through the crowd and bade the lad a good morning, greeting him with the forced airiness and overfamiliarity that characterises interaction between the old and the young. The lecturer, whose dangling security pass read Dr. Ian Greville as much for his own benefit as that of anyone else, directed the young man surely through the crowd and down a long and ill-lit set of stairs. He laid an arm around the boy's shoulders and gave no indication that it caused obvious disquiet.
Several security doors, a few passwords, and three different DNA samples later, Dr. Greville took his leave, clapping the boy heartily on the shoulder as he did so. It is to be hoped that the Doctor did not notice him brush that shoulder and roll it gently, as if removing an ache from it; if he did, as with his earlier preoccupation with seeming fatherly rather than being respectful, he made not the slightest show of it.
The young man walked hesitantly down the corridor, the silver heel of his dark oak walking-cane clicking nervously past beds with unearthly occupants kept behind closed blue hospital curtains of cheap and non-specific manufacture. Occasionally, they twitched as he walked past; he did not start at such times, but the sum of it caused a bead of sweat to appear at his brow. He dabbed at it with a handkerchief but did not stop to do so; such expressions were a weakness that might be exploited, were his enemies given the option. While it might be thought odd that a boy of his obvious youth should be so concerned with those that should do him harm, he had done the majority of his growing-up in a very short space of time and surrounded by peers who had done so in even less.
The time came. He stopped and waited by the blue curtains for a heartbeat, then two, then three. A sharp rap of his cane produced a loud knock, most unusually for curtains of even the thickest manufacture but quite normal for the plates of Generic Surface behind them. The curtains pulled back and revealed a door, as well as a small slot for his finger. One brief sting and a "DNA Verified" later, he knocked again.
"Door's open~! Teehee!"
And suddenly it was, the twin panels sliding into the wall with a contented-sounding hiss. They revealed a four-poster bed with hot pink furnishings and glittering gold and silver curtains, a small wardrobe, and a mirror with a slogan of some description written on it in lipstick of the same violently red hue as the electric signage outside an Amsterdam brothel. Sat on the side of the bed was a slender woman, heavily made up with too-dark eyeshadow over too-pale foundation and with lips of a neon purple hue that matched the streak in her jet-black, feathery hair. Her enormous bosom was crammed into a bright pink T-shirt (possibly with the aid of three stout longshoremen wielding crowbars) while over it she wore a short leather jacket; to complete the outfit, she wore grey denim trousers of a fit that made inexpressibles look positively Puritan and neon-pink ankle boots, the backs of which were covered in silver studs, including the stiletto heels. At his entry, she beamed, and rushed over to give the young man a hug as he stepped inside, the door locking behind him.
"Sweetie! I didn't realize you were coming over today!"
"Mother," the young man said stiffly.
"Aw, I told you, call me Lily or Anna~! Or both! That's my name, after all~! Mother makes me look over my shoulder, y'dig?"
"Nevertheless," he said, "I feel... uncomfortable calling you anything else, Mother. I am sorry if this slights you."
"Oh, you so get that from your dad." Lilianna sat down heavily on the bed again, kicking her legs out in a petulant manner. "An' I told you, don't apologise. 'S'not like you did anything wrong, A."
"If you insist."
Lilianna patted the side of the bed next to her. "Siddown, boi~! Mama's got some catchin' up to do!"
The young man took of his coat and hung it neatly on the mirror's stand, careful not to let it touch the lipstick. He then took the indicated seat, his cane resting on the pink duvet.
"Soooooo? What's cookin', good lookin'~? That, by the way? That's all my side. Only thing of your dad's in you is his dress sense, which, like, is suuuuuper uncool. Guess ya gotta expect that from someone who called their kid Agamemnon. No offence."
Agamemnon forced himself not to roll his eyes. "You gave none, Mother. Your words are kindness itself, as always."
"Aww, you're such a sweetheart, A~! You get that from me too!"
"Indeed, Mother."
"So, whatcha wanna talk about? Oooh, are ya having girl trouble? Don't do anything Mama wouldn't do~! Wink!" Lilianna favoured him with a shining white grin.
"... No, Mother, though your concern for my romantic wellbeing is touching." Agamemnon fought another urge, this time to back away at ever-increasing speed. "I... that is to say, Father and I... we have some questions on a subject, and we were hoping you might be so good as to favour us with answers."
"Ohhhh, now I get it! Your dad's stuck on another magic problem, isn't he~? Y'know, for a guy with as many books as he has, he doesn't read a whole bunch, does he? The answer's prolly in those. Has he tried the Book of Shadows? Of course not. He can't read it, because he's not part of my family, and I'm preeeeeeetty sure he's not the daughter of the Moon Goddess. Teehee!"
Agamemnon forced a laugh; more of a bark really, but Lilianna failed to discern the difference and smiled at him anyway, laughing like a mountain stream (gurgling, and with fluid in uncomfortable places) all the while.
Eventually, Agamemnon made himself speak again. "I shall recommend that to Father the next time a problem of some such nature arises. However, it is a question of an entirely separate nature with which I come to you."
"Oh? Is it where babies come from?" Lilianna's gaze grew sultry, and she leaned in to run a finger over his cheek. "'Cause, y'know, if you weren't my baby I could show you, baby bo-"
"It concerns my childhood!"
There was silence for a moment. Agamemnon had a fearful air about him, and it was a few moments before he noticed he had stood up; indeed, he had leaped to his feet as if assailed with hot needles and his skin was ashen. He could still feel the finger on his cheek, even as Lilianna pouted at him from the bed with a hurt expression and a gleam in her eye he told himself was just glitter, just glitter.
He sat down again, hurriedly attempting to compose himself. "It concerns my childhood, Mother. And I am... sorry, for starting at your touch."
"I told ya, kiddo, don't apologise." She then let out an odd false cough that Agamemnon furiously told himself sounded like anything other than the word 'prude'. "Anyway, I can definitely help with that. Shoot!"
"Well..." Agamemnon crossed and uncrossed his legs, then caught himself, glaring at them until they stilled. "I am afraid I don't remember the least thing about it. Nor does Father, I am afraid to say."
Lilianna raised her eyes heavenward in supplication. "Ugh. Yeah, of course he won't remember anything about it. He's a totally self-obsessed narcissistic douchenoodle. And he's way worse at magic than me. And he's way worse at everything than me."
Agamemnon could not speak, and merely nodded. The muscles in his neck were so tense their shape could be seen through his collar and mildly distorted the shape of his cravat.
"But yeah," Lilianna continued, "while your dad was busy being super lame, you had a happy childhood with me~! We did eeeeeeverything together. I watched you climb trees in Arendelle-"
"Perenelle," Agamemnon corrected out of habit, then looked up in carefully-hidden fright.
"-Whatever. I watched you dance in balls, I watched you run around and play... all that good stuff. Like I said, we did everything together~! We even bathed together. Ooh, now there's a little somethin' I could stand to try again." She leaned in towards him again, licking her lips, dull, mottled pink on vivid purple.
All colour drained from Agamemnon's face, and he reached into his pocket and set off a small beeper. "Ah! My alarm!" He spoke quickly, each word scurrying out of his mouth like a hunted rabbit. "I fear I have utterly lost track of time, Mother. I have class to attend and Mr. Figgis is most unkind to late-comers! I beg your indulgence in letting me take my belongings and leave?"
"Oh, sure! If ya gotta go, ya gotta go. Hurry baaaack, pretty boy mine!"
"You may depend upon it," said Agamemnon, inwardly cursing his politeness. Even without her influencing his mind, he found it near-impossible to say no to her. He quickened his pace, ignoring the smudge of lipstick on the lapel of his overcoat and the tremble of his hand as he reached for his cane. The DNA lock beeped again and the door hissed open, though it had taken him a few tries to provide the blood sample, so chill were his veins.
"Kiddo. Can I be serious for a moment?"
Just as he was about to leave, her tone made Agamemnon stop and turn to face her.
"When... when are ya gonna come visit again?"
When you're better. When I'm better. When you're a kind mother from a fairy tale, not a Suvian in season from a past that only theoretically existed. When I've put it off for long enough. When I've steeled myself enough for it. When I don't think it will hurt as much as the last time, or the time before, or the time before.
"Soon," he replied.
Lilianna sat on the bed after the door closed, listening to the boy's stick click, click, click away.