Quick key:
-Naergondir and Gurnirel are SIELU agents and Noldorin Elves of the First Age of Middle-earth (aka, Tolkien Elves of Dafydd's earlier days). Being Elves, they have a lot of names between them. Most do not appear here.
-Osellë=sworn sister (Quenya)
-Otorno=sworn brother (Quenya). Both are left untranslated even when they're presumably speaking Quenya because it gets very clunky.
-Aman and Valinor are the same place.

I'm not sure yet if this is or will be canon at some point, but...you never know! It's certainly something I could see happening...let's call it canon-adjacent for now. Feedback welcome. Thank you also to the people who gave me feedback on the last prompt I did; I really appreciate it, and mainly didn't reply due to getting tired and sick until after it made its way off the front page. ~Z


---


"You cannot leave." Naergondir moved nimbly to block the door. His one hand rested against the closest of the trees which, with a variety of other flora, filled their RC; his other he held out, as though to keep his partner at bay. "Osellë, our place is here now. It must be."

Gurnirel hefted the pack onto her shoulders with a sigh. "I will never be content to live out my years in this place, otorno," she said. Her voice was soft. "Never. You know this."

"Do you not think the Valar were clear?" Naergondir stayed where he was. "We are barred from Valinor, Gurnirel. This--this is what we are to do."

"Is it?" Gurnirel pulled her long golden braid out from under the pack, resettling it behind one shoulder. "How can you be certain? How can you know that we were not merely sent here as a warning, as a sign that we must remain with the others of our kindred who are barred from Aman?"

"Surely here we may work towards forgiveness." Naergondir's throat ached as he spoke; he forced the words out anyway. "We are protecting our kindred here, Saileldë, in a way that we never could before. Surely this will someday earn us a place in Valinor, if anything will. Surely--"

"I cannot believe that." Gurnirel began to walk toward him, skirting roots as she went. "I will not. I tried, Naergondir. I did. But this is not our home, my home. This is not even our world. How can I stay here, a stranger, when my son yet lives in Middle-earth? When he is forced to play servant to Sue after Sue? I cannot remain here." She came to a stop in front of him. Their eyes met. "Step aside, otorno. Come with me if you will; but do not attempt to stop me if you will not. For whether with you or alone, I am bound away."

"And if this, as all else, should turn to evil end?" Naergondir let his hand fall, but didn't step aside. "We are the Dispossessed, Gurnirel. Are you so eager to shed more tears?"

"I would shed them in my home world," Gurnirel said. "I would shed them where I can feel the eyes of the Valar on me." She reached out, clasping his shoulder. "I have already shed them here," she said quietly. "If I am to shed more--let it be in a land where I can see the sky and feel the ground."

For a time, they stood simply looking at one another. At last, Naergondir bowed his head and stepped aside.

"May you find peace," he said. "Bear my regards to your son, should he wish to hear them."

"I shall do so." Gurnirel offered her hand; when Naergondir reached out to take it, she gripped his forearm in a warrior's clasp. "May we meet again one day in Aman."

When she had gone, Naergondir stood among the tangle of trees and vines and stared at the door to the RC. The generic gray still appeared foreign to his eyes; even the flora that crowded their RC--his, now--was not entirely familiar.

"When will I see you again?" he murmured. "What will befall us now we have left each other's company?"

He half expected her to return, to open the door and explain that she had had a change of heart. That was not her way, though; it never had been. Once Gurnirel had made a decision, she did not easily alter it.

He turned away, running his fingers along bark and vines as he approached the console. Perhaps it would provide him with a mission; he was eager to return to protecting his kin.

(Perhaps she would be there now, the Vanyarin-blooded Noldo whose path had twisted with and diverged from his again and again throughout the First Age. She would no longer be able to see him if he didn't make his presence known--but that was the price to pay for protecting Arda from the disastrous effects of poor writing. And he had made his choice, just as she had now made hers.)

Please, he thought. It wasn't quite a prayer; he was too fearful what might come of prayers to use them easily now. Let this be the end. Let us earn forgiveness at last.

The Doom of Mandos rang in his ears, his only companion until--

[BEEEEEEP!]

My thanks to Delta Juliette and Calliope for beta-reading this prompt.

Marina Nicodelli was crouched on her bed in the Response Center. Her mini Yale was napping in his corner of the room, and her partner had left not long ago for a few days with with his family for Christmas. From the sound of it while Richard had been wrapping his presents, his home situation wasn't stellar. Not that there was something she could do about it. She had her own problems with Christmas to deal with. And she could do it better alone.

Problems which were pretty much summed up by the photo she was looking at the moment. It was one of the few mementos of her life she had left after the Fomorians had burned it to the ground and attempted to kill her.

She was barely in the background of the photo, a half-smile on her face. Not that she had been unhappy at having the opportunity of being with her family for Christmas; she had been quite happy at the idea of spending the holiday with them. Not having to worry about any sort of trouble or ritual prepared to take advantage of the holiday had been as good for her as possible.

But... Her little sister Felicia, pictured sitting down in front of her with a big grin on her face, had received the first season of one of her favorite shows, My Little Pony, and she just had to start watching it as soon as possible, heedless of her older sister inside her anti-hexing circle. Marina had been unable to get out while Felicia cheered at her show. Marina sighed at the memory. At least Felicia had chosen a decent one to watch.

Next to the two sisters were their parents. Victor Nicodelli was fairly average at five-foot-eight, rather stout, with greying brown hair and a close-cropped beard, which was also turning grey. There was some subdued joy on his face and in his green eyes, like when he had taken her to a shooting range for the first time. He still looked rigid though, as if he had to be ready to spring to duty at any moment. He had been quite relieved nothing had happened on Christmas- it had waited for New Year's Eve. And trouble had been generous enough to involve Marina by making one of the suspects a ghoul.

Her mother had handled the resulting fallout as well as she could at the time. Namely, by putting up a good front for Felicia so she wouldn’t worry too. While she did that, she would ask herself once more why she had accepted her eldest daughter learn about magic rather than letting it go away. But none of that worry could be seen on the photo. Jessica Nicodelli was about six feet tall, with the same black hair as her daughters, although some white hair could be seen here and there. She had the same slender build as Marina, and a quiet presence that could be felt even through the picture.

Marina hadn't seen them for years now. She missed them, especially during the end of the year. Her master too, the old bear. John Riders. An americanization from his old name, back when he lived in Flanders.

The old man had been a stern master, and showed her how close she'd been to the edge in that alley. Magic was not a toy- under his instruction she'd witnessed the evils of black magic, and the terrors it inflicted. That the same old man had liked to read Twilight And Fifty Shades of Gray had left her rather dumbfounded. He would always laugh at the books before talking about how the standards of the White Court for ghostwriters had dropped in the last decades. Meyer certainly didn't compare to Stoker.

Marina lost herself in memories of him and her family for a while. Memories were all she had, for now. The C-CADs which had worked long enough to get a reading on her would constantly oscillate between ‘canon ‘verse’ and ‘RP setting’ regarding her origins. A pretty way of saying that as long as she didn’t know where to go back, she couldn’t go back home. And unless her… author wrote something about how things canonically were back in Philadelphia, it would remain that way until he ended the series.

Sure, she could probably live long enough to wait the end of the series out. She could probably even go back to the moment she had jumped for the Nevernever once the time for retirement had come. Or, more preferably, she would come back later, and away from her would-be killers.

But if things always went as expected, she wouldn’t have ended up facing what she had thought to be a psychotic junkie on her way back from school. It wouldn’t have ended up being a Renfield, a berserk thrall of Black Court Vampires. She wouldn’t have ended up crushing him to the ground with a power she didn’t understand yet. She wouldn’t have ended up discovering a world larger and more fascinating and dangerous as she thought. And she certainly wouldn’t have ended up discovering an even larger and more fascinating and dangerous one after that.

And if things went unexpectedly again, her family and her master would never be the wiser about it. Marina Nicodelli would be dead, in her office, or her apartment, or in an alley, or in the Nevernever. But she most certainly would not be killed in the service of some sort of multidimensional organization. An organization which looked at many, many universes as fictions, and fought eldritch abominations trying to make them fit their twisted desires.

But for now, all she could do was look at the picture and ask one question. “When can I see you again?”

AN: Right! I basically used this prompt as an excuse to have a bit of "fun" with some ideas I've had around for a little while. I did my best to ensure this makes canonical sense for 40k, but facts about Prospero are light on the ground, and I am bad at research. So I didn't have a ton to work with. OTOH, I didn't have a ton of constraints, either. I'm mostly worried I screwed something I don't know about up, but I don't think I did.

Thank you to Nesh for making some very helpful suggestions that made this story a lot better, to 'Plith for helping double-check that it makes canon sense, and to, Quincy, Granz, and Calliope for giving it a once-over and checking to ensure I hadn't lost my mind, at least from a people-not-overly-familiar-with-40k-canon-who-just-want-a-neat-story perspective.

With that over with, on to the story proper:
~~

“I don’t know if you ever will. But if so... it won’t be like this. I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t believe it, at first. That you were really going. I had the utmost faith in you, but—”

“No. You thought I would fail.”


“Kann—”

“Don’t deny it. I can see it, clear as day.”

“Kann, please.”

“There’s no shame in your lack of belief. It’s rare for anyone to be chosen. And I’m far from perfect. You, of all people, would know that. To have that faith in me would have made you a fool.”

[Pause]

“Why are you doing this to me, Kann?”


“...Because I’m afraid, Erek. I’m terrified of leaving you. And maybe if I pretend I can’t feel it, the pain will stop.”

“I understand that, I think. But… please. Stop trying to hurt me. Because I can see how much it’s tearing you up. And I’m afraid too.”

“You have little to fear.”

“I’m about to lose you.”

“You’ll find someone else.”

“Not you.”

“...No. Not me.”

“Kann… don’t go. Not yet. I want you with me.”

“I leave at daybreak. Until then...”

“Until then, we are together?”

“Of course. For as long as I can manage.”

[...Time Passes...]

“This really is the end then.”

“I have to go. I don’t want to, but I have to.”

“It is an honor, I suppose.”

“Being chosen to serve the Emperor… it is the greatest honor. But sometimes, I wonder if it’s worth giving you up. Not that I could turn it down if I wanted to.”

“...I love you, Kannan.”

“And I love you, Erek.”

“Should I ever see you again… will you at least greet me?”

“Of course, Erek. If I can, I’ll do that for you.”

---

“Thoth?”

The Thousand Son now known as Thoth looked up. “What is it you wish, Tom?”

Tom took his head out of his book to look at his partner. “I was just wondering… what was it like, being chosen to be a Space Marine?”

Thoth was silent for a moment. “I was more than a boy, at least. Many are chosen to join the Astartes sooner than I was. Although the training in my powers had begun long before that, as it did for all children gifted with such things upon Prospero.” There was another pause. “I began my training, and I left my life behind. That is what you do, when you are chosen.”

“Did it hurt? Leaving your home?”

“...No,” Thoth said. For a brief instant, Tom thought he saw a hint of… something in the marine’s eye. Sadness, or regret, maybe. But it could have just been a trick of the light.

~~
Disclaimers: Thoth, Tom, and Erek are mine, The Laundry Files belongs to Charles Stross (it never really shows up here, but Tom's from there... just being safe), Warhammer 40k, Prospero, The Thousand Sons, and so on belong to Games Workshop, and the PPC, of course, belongs to Jay and Acacia, in the trust of the PPC Board and the PGs held therein.

Author's Note: I. Uh. I don't know why a story like this even came to me, it just . . . did. I'm so sorry.

Warning for alcohol use.

* * *

Bob shifted a bit, trying to straighten himself in his chair. An awful ringing was sounding in his ears, thought he had no clue when, exactly, it had started.

Wait . . . ringing?

BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Not ringing, not in his ears. "Console," he muttered, his throat feeling tight and phlegmy. "Mission."

Bob's forehead suddenly smarted with pain, as the lip of a glass bottle had tapped him there, quite strongly. "Vat? Vat iz dis you are talking apout? Mission? Dare iz no mission for you, but to talking mit me, here."

Bob scrunched up his brow. The console was clearly BEEPing . . . wasn't it? Although, come to think of it, his head did hurt quite a bit. And the slightly echoed, hollow rumble of the Angel's voice rather muddied the sound in his ears. Still, though: "The light is red, though . . ."

"Humph!" replied the Angel. "Vot are ve caring vor de colors of lights? Ve are a pair of revined gentlemen, holding proper discourse mit each other, yes?"

Bob forced his vision to focus on the creature sitting atop his RC's card table. It was a bit difficult, because his vision listed just a bit to the left, and because the Angel's rum cask body, beer keg legs, and wine bottle arms blended in so well with the table's layout. "My . . . my job, though . . . A mission . . ."

"Vy you are not pe in condition for mission! Hu! Hu! Hu! You are pe very dronk, mein friend! He! He! He! Here, haf yourself a little of de water." And the Angel refilled Bob's glass from one of its arm bottles labeled "Kirschenwasser."

Bob grinned and downed the clear liquid, expecting water, but delighted to find it tasted of cherries. "Thank you, Angel," he sighed, "You're such a good—"

The door to the RC slammed open. Here it is! The security dandelion fired a shot from a wide-barreled firearm, launching a large net through the air.

The Angel must have been far more nimble than its body would seem to allow, as from Bob's perspective, the net should have found its mark. However, it only managed to snap closed over some of the inanimate beverage containers near the Angel, taking them off the table to shatter onto the floor.

Plan B, please.

"On it!" a DIA agent yelled as she stepped through behind the Weed. "Angel of the Odd, you are under arrest!" She lobbed a yellow-and-black ball at the table. The ball split open and shot red energy at the Angel.

The Angel clearly wasn't expecting any more success from this attempt than from the previous one. When the red energy reached him and began pulling him back into the ball, he uttered a "Mein Gott!" before the ball closed over him.

The ball fell to the floor. It shook once.

The security team stared.

It shook again.

Bob stared.

It shook a third time.

"All right!" The DIS agent moved to pick up the ball. "Contact the Captain and have him tell Bellman Next we've—"

The ball burst open and the Angel of the Odd skittered across the floor.

"—got her pagerunner." She picked up the Poké Ball, its hinge swinging uselessly open.

He's using the console! the Weed moved across the RC on its roots, but the Angel of the Odd had already stopped the alarm and opened a portal.

"Wait, Angel!" Bob slurred. "When will I see you again?"

Jumping nimbly through the dandelion's vines, the Angel laughed. "He! He! He! Vy, te Angel ov te Odd is alvays mit you! Any time you be find a strange accident iz be ruining your day, there I be!" He escaped out the portal, which snapped shut behind him.

"Nooo," Bob murmured. "Angeeel!" He stretched across the table, reaching for the closed portal, and sending bottle and glasses clattering down around his head as he came to rest face-down on the table.

"Seriously, dude. Get some help."

* * *

Author's Note: Agent Bob Cholera was named at random by Granz and Larfen J. Stocke, Esq. typing out random names in the chat. At his request, Agent Cholera henceforward belongs to Larfen J. Stocke, Esq. "The Angel of the Odd: An Extravaganza" was written by and belongs to Edgar Allen Poe. Thursday Next and the term "pagerunner" belong to Jasper Fforde. Poké Balls belong to Nintendo and Game Freak. Alcohol is drugs, kids. Don't do drugs.

—doctorlit, apparently making a habit of forcing himself to write characters with odd written speech

My thoughts as I was doing this: Hey, what could go wrong, hmm? The answer: Everything! XD Much thanks to Iximaz for beta-ing. As this is five pages long, I shall post in Google Doc form. Hope y'all enjoy!

https://docs.google.com/document/d/1j6m06xLaikiDOoxdI81g6_Ps1LYOXgnZpli8BslVPG4/edit?usp=sharing

((Thank you, Calliope mah dahling, for betawork!))





The End-of-Year Feast at Beauxbatons was something else. Mason couldn't help but smile, seeing the tables slowly filling with solid gold bowls, dishwares, and plates the size of police shields, all containing one delicious food after another. He could see various types of roasted meat, grilled vegetables, boards of cheese and baskets of bread, big pots of aromatic stews... Despite the last night's celebration at the Hogwarts' quarters, everybody seemed to have room for more food. After all, it was the last day, all the important guests had already gathered, and the 2014 Triwizard Tournament was about to officially end.

Looking over at the Hogwarts guest section, Mason saw his friends in their usual environment. Paul and Oscar were too busy stuffing their faces and quite animatedly discussing something. Next to them was Lydia, who met Mason's gaze and gave him an excited two-thumbs-up! He wasn't exactly sure why, seeing as their school came out of the competition tying with the host for the exact number of points, so could it really be considered a second place?

Over at the Champions' table discussions also kept on going. Mason noticed on his left Gentry de Saint-Germain speaking vigorously to Headmaster Colbert. The man was seemingly letting his students talk out all of his problems and issues (at least that's how Mason saw it), but it seemed like he was dozing off a little bit, almost dumping his elbow into a bowl of stew. On his right, Mason saw Alva Krieger calmly eating her breakfast. She and Headmistress Borisova weren't talking much, subtly ignoring other guests by answering their questions with one or two short words.

Mason smiled. Both Gentry and Alva were fierce competitors, and he couldn't have picked better people to give him a run for his Galleons. Then, by the end, if it wasn't for them, he would certainly be in a worse condition than a broken arm. He looked at Headmistress McGonagall but found her chatting with the French Minister for Magic, and therefore decided it wouldn't be the smartest idea to interrupt them.

After the Feast has finally ended, and the official and unofficial goodbyes were exchanged, the students from the visiting schools started gathering by their designed modes of transportation. The Durmstrang ship was ready to sail, and the Hogwarts Express’s whistle rang once again. While exiting the gates of the school, the guests were led by a water salute that sprouted out of the Flamel Fountain. The statues of both Nicolas and Perenelle shot out water from their wands, which turned into a breeze that fell onto both groups of students, who were now laughing and squealing as they rushed towards their vehicles.

'Hey, Branwen!' Mason turned around and saw Alva and Gentry standing behind him. Some of the students from others schools were giving them passing looks, or whispering to each other. Alva was holding the Triwizard Cup above her head, and Gentry had the same smug smile the first time the three of them were gathered together. He was repelling the water droplets with a sort of invisible umbrella.

'Leaving? Vithout zaying au-revoir?' Gentry asked. 'Oh, 'onestly, Mason, vere are your manners?'

'Well, I was considering ditching you two at breakfast, but the vision of food was too tempting,' Mason replied, giving them a sly grin.

'Truly, an English gentleman to the core.' Alva rolled her eyes and both of them stepped closer. Almost at the same time they'd extended their fists.

'So?' she continued. 'When are we seeing you again?'

'You're not gezing rid of us zat easily, mon ami,' Gentry added.

Mason stared at their gesture. He then sighed and bumped their fists with his only available arm. 'I'll be there, whenever either of you gets into trouble.'

'You rock, Branwen.' Alva moved closer and kissed him on the cheek. 'But don't get cocky,' she whispered into his ear before adjusting her fur coat and leaving the boys behind.

Gentry was first to regain his speech. And his smug smile. 'Vell, vell, vell...'

'Say one more word, Frenchie… One more word, I dare you!'

((All Beta'd by Larf except the ending.))

"When'll you be back then?" Kara asked, worried.

"Relax, Kar! Daichi's just going to scout out this place, we'll be able to take the Sue in a bit." he smirked, unfazed by the dangerous world around him.

"Okay. . ." Kara sighed. "Don't do anything stupid, you hear?"

Daichi chuckled and started walking. "Daichi's not going to do anything silly, don't worry Mum!"

I'm not that old. Kara smirked. Not sure why we grew to like each other as partners. By all means, I should've hated him.

Kara sat down at their campfire, and made sure everything was in order, that no forest fire was going to start like the last time she entrusted a campfire to Daichi. She looked up to the stars produced by the Words - she would've started counting them, but examining the odd way in which they were described proved to be more interesting, she could've sworn the stars had eyes. It was odd, indeed, sparkling eyes that kept blinking. It seemed like every eye was fixated on something and nothing at the same time. Kara wasn't sure whether to be horrified or fascinated.

Dusk was soon to give way to night, the whole forest seemed to have gone to sleep. The whole forest. . . except Kara. She wanted to wait just a bit longer for Daichi - something felt terribly wrong, like a knife to the chest. The 'stars' in the sky started tearing, emulating rain -
it made it impossible for Kara to search for Daichi.

Just hit the hay already, we've been at this for years, Daichi's fine. Kara twisted and turned in her makeshift bed. He's fine you crazy old lady. He's fine. He's got to be fine.

After hours of twisting and turning, hours of convincing herself Daichi was fine, hours of imagining all the horrible things that could've went wrong, Kara managed to sleep.

To her delight - it would've been surprising if it wasn't a Word World - she woke up to a bright, sunny day. With an air of optimism, even the sun itself winked at her. Although, now that it was in broad daylight, it was quite the harrowing sight. Kara made a mental note not to look at the sky anymore.

Just as she was about to settle into her usual groove, she looked over at Daichi's bed and panicked, she looked left to right but. . . Daichi was nowhere to be seen. Oh my. . where is he? He should've been back by now. . . maybe he's ju-

Her thoughts were interrupted by a yelp in the distance.

It can't be. . . Kara's adrenaline levels spiked, her mind was going haywire.

She wasn't thinking. She was moving. The trees around her turned into a blur. Her eyes barely kept up with how fast she was going. She saw Daichi. She saw blood.

Daichi was gasping for air, a Suvian sword impaled into his chest. He couldn't move. The best he could do was tilt his head slightly, coughing up blood in the process, to look at Kara. Shocked didn't even come close to describing her, no word could come close to describing how she was feeling nor how she looked. She sat next to Daichi and held his hand, hoping that would somehow pull the sword out of him, that this was all a horrible nightmare.

"K-kara. . ." Daichi blurted. "Daichi's not going to. . . die, right? Daichi's going to be. . . okay, right?" his eyes were dull, he wasn't even looking at Kara anymore.

"You'll be okay, Daich. I promise!" Kara was doing her best to soothe him. "J-just hang in there. . . hang in there. . . please."

"Daichi's not feeling... Daichi's not feeling so well. . . don't leave. . . Daichi. . . please." he pleaded, not knowing Kara's state.

"I'm not leaving, Daichi! We're partners. . . partners 'til the end. . . come on. . . just hang in there for me." Kara cried out.

Daichi moved his hand to touch Kara's cheek, still not looking at her. "I think. . . I think this is the end, Kara." a slight smiled formed on his face. "It's been. . . fun. . . being partners. Sorry. . . I couldn't've been a better. . . a better partner. . ." Daichi's hand fell limply. He took his last breath.

Kara wanted to say something, anything. . . but all she could do was sob. Sit there, blame herself, and cry.

She was alone. . .

Alone again.

“Ready, get set, go!”

Radin is running like hell. However, he is already left behind by most of the other contestants. The spectacled nerd keeps running even when his three fellow competitors are already wheezing from exhaustion. They gave their all for the hundred meter dash.

The time keeper stops his clock as Radin, the last person passes the white line. “Eleven point zero seven seconds, 2 marks.”

Someone Radin didn’t know slaps his back. “You are so smart, why don’t you run faster?”

Radin could not listen to the comment, his ears are throbbing with the heartbeat. Many people Radin didn’t know congratulates him for his time, even the fastest runner, who is also the school athlete. What’s his name? Radin surely had heard of it, but he can’t remember.

“You ARE the fastest.”

Ah yes, he can remember the athlete’s nickname. “Ped”.

Everyone laughs. They chat with each other while Radin keeps smiling. He keeps an interest on their chat though. He can’t understand most of what they are talking about, a dragon and a ball or something. He himself is a fan of a story where people being eaten by parasites taking over heads. But no one understands what cartoon he is talking about.

Noon comes, and the middle school event closes. House Red gains the highest marks and are accorded the main prize hamper. As a member, Radin is given a small bag of chips. He walks home to his house. ‘Ped’ sneaks upon him from behind.

“Oi, Radin!”

“Astagha!” Radin turns to his back.

‘Ped’ is smiling, his hands holding Radin’s shoulders.

“You are quite strong, still being able to walk home after running.”

“And you? You were the fastest back then.”

‘Ped’ hugs him even closer, stopping their walk. “You are fast too, only your start is slow.”

Radin rubs the back of his neck, his face red with shame even if his lips can’t stop smiling. “OK. Eh, where is your house?”

“Taman Ria. It’s to the left junction at the hospital.”

Radin nods a little. “I see.”

‘Ped’ lets go of Radin. “You want icecream?”

Radin’s face is white as chalk. “Sorry I can’t, have to go home immediately.”

‘Ped’ looks dejected. They walk for a few more minutes before ‘Ped’ look Radin right in the eye. “Well, I have to go that way.”

“OK, bye Ped.” Radin sprints away from ‘Ped’ as fast as he can.

Radin can hear ‘Ped’ shouting something, but Radin can’t hear it. There is only one thought in Radin’s brain, “When will I see you again?”

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.

===

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.

((Introducing a character who's been bouncing around in RPs but hasn't made a canon appearance. Not yet, anyway.))

"Do you think you'll ever come back?"

Dax took a moment to finish tying the fastenings on her rucksack, blinking back the tears. "I hope so," she finally said, turning around. "Maybe once I've finally found someplace that would be safe for us to live."

Her father sighed and shook his head. "It's a nice thought, but an impossible dream at best. Once a year, love, please?"

Dax shrugged. "I dunno. If I can get a job on a skyship like I'm hoping, then that might not always be possible."

"As often as you can manage, then," her mother (well, her other father, but also her mother—it was complicated) said, kissing her on the forehead. "You know where to find us."

Dax nodded, throwing her arms around her mother. "I'm going to miss you," she sniffled, fighting back the lump in her throat.

Her father put his arms around the two of them and held them close. "We're going to miss you, too," he said. "But we knew this day would come, sooner or later. Even as a child, we knew you'd rather leave than stay in the tribe."

Dax pulled back slightly, leaving just her hands resting on her parents'. "You're not going to ask me to stay?"

"Why would we?" her mother said. "Your life is much more important than whatever worry we might feel." She wrapped an arm around her mate's waist. "And we know you're more than capable of looking out for yourself. So." She took Dax's face in her hands. "Get out there and show the world what you're made of."

And there were the tears. Dax ducked her head, shoulders beginning to shake as they embraced once more. "Love you guys," she choked out.

"Love you too, sweetheart," her father murmured. He took a step back, wiping his eyes. "Be safe out there."

"When will I see you again?"

I stopped walking, just as I was about to go through the front door. I turned to face my former best friend, my former partner, my former lover.

"I don't think I'll ever be able to bring myself to see you ever again."

I continued out the door, and onto the street. It'd been a long five years. But being lied to, cheated on, stolen from, gossiped about, and every other horrible thing on that list, I had to leave. I just had to. No matter what I was to him, he is nothing to me now. I hailed a cab. I asked for the nearest airport, and I booked a flight somewhere faraway. I needed a vacation, and I had his credit card. There was enough money in my bank account to set me up nicely wherever I decided to land, and I had a large amount of training experience in the tech industry to land me a decent job, if not an excellent one. I thought about calling my mom. It's one of those things that you don't really think about, you know? Calling a parent and telling them that "Hey, I just left New York and my husband and now I'm starting a new life somewhere else." I figured people only did that in the movies, but no. I called her. I'm sure we spent what must have been an hour talking, and another hour after that of me just bawling my eyes out. I'm not proud of that, but I honestly did feel better afterwards. I'm never going to see these people in this lobby ever again, so why care? My flight was booked to California. Apparently has good beaches and good booze. I'll be okay. I'll move on, I will drink till I forget, and drink till I forget that I drank to forget. And that's okay. I picked an aisle seat. And I'm going to listen to my favorite music all the way there. And then I will live my own happy ending.