By the Pricking of My Thumbs: Chapter Two
By the Pricking of My Thumbs
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Words: 2,621 Chapter 2/?
Disclaimer: Not mine. I would never squander H.G. Wells that way.
Spoilers: Through Season 2, Ep. 12, Reset.
Author’s Note: I hated the way Season 2 ended. I hated the waste of such an amazing character, seemingly written out of character to me, at least. I hated the waste of such amazing chemistry between Myka and H.G. So, I decided to fix it. Multi-chapters but I promise to finish them quickly. Honest. My first attempt at Warehouse 13, by the way, so be kind as I get the voices down.
Beta'd by the kind and lovely, darandkerry. Thanks, darlin'!
Chapter One here:
http://community.livejournal.com/passion_perfect/3249299.html
Chapter Two
Univille, South Dakota
“What the hell happened?” Pete demanded, storming into the room like a bull elephant, stopping short at the sight of his unconscious partner, her face wet with tears. “Is she sleeping or in a coma or what? And why’s her face wet? Artie, what the hell is going on? I mean, I leave for a few hours…”
H.G. remained silent, allowing Artie to answer the questions, intrigued as always by the brotherly affection that Pete harbored for Myka. She had worked with partners in the past, but never developed the relationship that existed between the two Secret Service agents. Perhaps it was her own inability to trust completely. Perhaps it was something else, something inside her that others could sense, something essential that she lacked, something that made them wary. People had always been wary of her. Everyone except Christina.
And Myka.
From their first meeting over the barrel of a gun, there was some indefinable quality, some fleeting recognition, as of strangers seeing in a new face some resemblance to one known and loved: the subtle sweep of a brow, the tender curve of a lip, the remembered color of the eyes. Some trace of the familiar in the alien.
And Myka had seen something else, as well, something good and solid, something she could rely on. Something few had ever seen: Helena’s heart. Damaged though it had been, there was in it still a drop or two of human kindness, of compassion. Of love.
She half-listened to the frenetic conversation between the two men, Artie’s tone beleaguered and tired, Pete’s voice loud and brash, the undertones of fear resonating like the bells of St. Peter’s, the sound vibrating like a tuning fork inside her. Odd, really. It had been so many years since she’d felt that kind of fear, felt the rush of protectiveness that seemed to erupt in her whenever Myka was near. It left her feeling off-balance and vulnerable, two things H.G. Wells despised.
And yet there it was.
“Dammit, Artie! Why doesn’t anyone know what’s wrong with her?” Pete demanded, his face reminding her for all the world of a very young, very frightened boy.
“I’m working on it, okay? There are no drugs in her system…don’t ask, it’d take too long to explain…she hasn’t passed out. There’s no sign of foul play. According to you and Claudia, she came upstairs around ten, presumably went to sleep and hasn’t woken up. Call me paranoid, but I’d say that clearly she’s come in contact with some artifact. The question is, which one and where is it.”
“She didn’t. Go to sleep that is,” H.G. said quietly, her glance at Artie through her eyelashes decidedly guarded.
“What’re you talking about?” The belligerence in the question was far greater than usual, an animosity so strong and real that it hovered like a wraith in the corner of the room, unpredictable and menacing.
“I was merely attempting to clarify. I presume you are tracing Myka’s movements last evening in order to either include or eliminate possible causes for her current condition, are you not?” H.G. stated carefully, her tone and facial expression determinedly neutral.
“What did you mean, she didn’t go to sleep?” Artie repeated, the glower on his face growing darker with every passing moment.
“She did come upstairs, but she didn’t go to bed immediately. She knocked on my door at half past ten. She came in and we talked for a little while,” H.G. began to explain, only to be interrupted by the sharp edge of Artie’s voice.
“Talked about what? She saw you most of the day. What did she have to talk to you about at eleven o’clock at night?”
“Half past ten. And I honestly don’t see what our conversation has to do with the current situation,” H.G. replied, the faint trace of a polite smile that touched her lips never reaching her eyes.
“I’ll decide what’s relevant and what isn’t. What did you talk about?” Artie demanded harshly, moving around the bed to advance toward H.G.’s position.
“It was a private conversation. I assure you, nothing in it could possibly have any connection to what’s happened to Myka.” There was a thin layer of steel in H.G.’s voice now.
“Artie, I’m sure it was just girl talk, you know, guys, clothes, shoes,” Pete began, only to be silenced by Artie’s patented death glare.
Artie advanced closer to H.G., his posture clearly threatening, brows lowered to one dark line across his forehead. “I’m not going to ask again. What did you and Myka talk about last night?”
“Nothing. Everything. We talked about what happened to her in Denver, about her family and her relationship with her father. She told me how my books, how all books, had been a refuge for her growing up. We talked about all sorts of things, none of which could possibly relate to her current condition,” H.G. said heatedly, dark eyes unflinching as she met Artie’s stare.
“Did she eat anything, drink anything while she was with you?” Artie asked, animosity in every clipped syllable.
“We had some tea. Since Claudia so kindly gave me an electric kettle, I can make tea in my room now.” Artie had her backed up between the bed and the far wall and Helena began to realize exactly how the lion felt as the tamer advanced with chair and whip at the ready. She wondered idly if Artie knew how often the lion won.
“Did you use tea bags? Mugs?” Artie demanded.
At another time, the look of disgusted outrage on H.G.’s face would have been comical. “Teabags? Mugs? Good God, no! I brewed a lovely pot of Assam. You can check it if you like. I was going to take them down and wash them this morning, but then I heard Claudia yelling for help. The pot and cups are still sitting on the table in my room. Check them. Check anything you like.”
Without another word, Artie turned and stormed out of the room. She heard the door to her room hit the wall as it was flung unceremoniously open. Pete remained frozen in a spot at the foot of Myka’s bed, a very forced, very apologetic grimace-like smile on his face.
“Listen, I know Artie can be a little, you know, intense, but it’s just ‘cause he’s worried. Kinda like a Momma Grizzly and her cubs,” Pete explained, eyes darting between Helena and the doorway, as sounds of less than careful searching issued forth from the room across the hall.
“I’m familiar with the sentiment,” Helena murmured, now that the attack was over, her attention fixed once more on what was important: Myka. She ran her thumb slowly back and forth over the smooth skin of Myka’s hand, her expression anxious and remarkably tender. “I would never hurt her. Never. Nor would I ever allow any harm to come to her were I able to prevent it.”
Her statement was met with silence from the other occupant of the room. Finally H.G. forced her gaze away from Myka’s face, glancing up in time to watch the realization dawn in Pete’s eyes, as bemusement was replaced with a knowing look and a slowly spreading, slightly puerile grin.
Men, she thought. Well, in a hundred years, some things haven’t changed.
“You like…” The rest of Pete’s sentence died quickly in his throat as Artie charged back into the room, his expression even more thunderous.
“If you poisoned her, I’ll find out,” Artie accused, his glasses riding low across the bridge of his nose.
“I didn’t poison her. I didn’t cast a spell on her. I didn’t hide some artifact away, waiting for just the right moment to strike. I did not, would not, do anything to harm her,” H.G. said quietly, the steady tone of her voice belying the dangerous flash of her dark eyes. “If there were an artifact in town, you would have already known it. I had nothing to do with this. Now, for God’s sake, please, stop focusing on me and start looking for what might have done this to her, before it’s too late.”
Helena met Artie’s glowering stare, forcing every ounce of sincerity into her voice, into her eyes, willing him to overcome his suspicions. Only when they heard the thud of Claudia’s footsteps on the stairs did Artie look away, his eyes falling to the prone figure on the bed, her hand still clasped in H.G.’s. He seemed about to speak when Claudia burst into the room.
“Okay,” she exclaimed, her breath coming in gasps, “I cross-referenced every known artifact with what we already have in the warehouse and I’m pretty sure I’ve narrowed it down to two artifacts. At least I hope I have. Do you know how many things there are out there that can put you to sleep, aside from Al Gore? Rocking chairs, baby rattles, a pair of Liberace’s shoes, which I totally don’t get, because you’d think…”
“Claudia!!” The three voices yelling her name brought her up short.
“Yeah, sorry. So I’ve narrowed it down to two. Both of them are supposed to be able to put people into a deep sleep. Washington Irving’s walking stick, or something called Frigg’s spindle.” Claudia finished quickly, sliding in close to Pete’s side as the wave of animosity in the room washed over her.
“If she touched one of them, why didn’t it take effect then? I mean, we got back from Pennsylvania yesterday morning. Why would it take that long to knock her out?” Pete asked, slipping his arm around Claudia’s thin shoulders.
“It may have been blocked by some outside agent. Maybe it was wrapped in something, a cloth or plastic, so that the contact was indirect,” Artie postulated, Claudia’s information doing little to allay his suspicions about H.G. Wells.
“Or it was broken,” Helena interjected, her head tilted to the side as she ran the possibilities through her mind. “Not broken as in no longer functioning, but literally broken. At Warehouse 12 we ran across several items that, while still powerful and potentially dangerous, had lost some of their potency because they were incomplete or in pieces.”
“Okay, first, what exactly is a spindle?” Pete asked with a puzzled frown.
“It’s used for weaving. It’s generally wood, thin and rounded, to wrap wool or yarn around.” Artie supplied. “Frigg was the Norse goddess of weaving and the hearth. Her spindle is thought to be the source of the Sleeping Beauty tales, although, trust me, this was no disgruntled fairy.”
“And Washington Irving wrote Rip Van Winkle, about a man who fell asleep for a hundred years. From all accounts, Irving was quite a delightful fellow, actually,” H.G. added, “although he always mourned the loss of his young fiancée, Matilda.”
“So, Myka could have picked up a piece of wood or stick or something?” Pete asked, searching his memory of their recent trip to a small community outside Allentown for something, anything that might help.
“A sliver.” Claudia muttered, eyes going wide as the implication struck her.
“Yes, I would imagine even a sliver would still hold some of the original power,” Artie began, only to find that he was the one interrupted this time.
“No, no! I mean, yes, but no. I meant, Myka had a sliver. In her finger. After you guys got back yesterday, H.G. and Pete were putting the anvil away and Myka asked me if I had any tweezers. She said she had a sliver in her thumb. I helped her take it out,” Claudia explained excitedly.
“What did you do with the piece of wood? Come on, Claudia, think!” Artie badgered, stepping close to the young woman and urgently grabbing her upper arm.
While he was questioning Claudia, Helena picked up Myka’s hands, examining first one, then the other, peering intently at the skin on her thumbs. A red spot where the skin was slightly puckered and pulled away on Myka’s right thumb was the only sign of the removal process.
“I don’t know. It was so small, it took us ten minutes to get it out. It probably fell on the floor, or got dropped in the trash. It was tiny. I mean, miniscule. I doubt we could find it even if I knew where it was.” Claudia answered, a slightly panicked look on her face.
“It doesn’t matter,” Helena told her soothingly, ignoring Artie’s angry look of distaste. “Clearly, the sliver was small enough that it held only a minor portion of the artifact’s power. Even if we found it and neutralized it, the effects would remain. We need to locate the original object.”
“Well then, Pennsylvania, here we come.” Pete pronounced. “Come on H.G. We got us an artifact to find. Don’t worry, Myka,” he reassured, squeezing Claudia’s shoulders again comfortingly, as he promised in his best Arnold voice. “We’ll be back.”
Helena didn’t even glance at Artie, knowing that the distrusting expression on his face would still be there, as it had been since she first reappeared at the Warehouse, despite the clear evidence that she hadn’t been responsible for what had happened to Myka. Had it been any other situation, Helena would have been intent on finding the object merely to prove herself to Arthur Nielsen, but not this time.
This time, all that mattered to her was Myka.
Outside Bozeman, Montana
“MacPherson may have been the one who unbronzed me, but you’re the one who brought me back to life.”
“Why, Agent Wells, what a delightfully, wonderfully sappy thing to say.”
Helena’s voice had been so tender, so full of love, her hand warm and real and solid as she gently cupped Myka’s cheek. Of course, Myka had joked about it, teasing Helena about the sentiment, as the emotions of the moment nearly overwhelmed her.
No one had ever made her feel so cherished, so loved. In a few short months, her life had undergone a transformation, no longer merely focused simply on her job and the Warehouse, but now on this remarkable woman who had eclipsed each and every one of her nearly abandoned hopes of finally finding someone to share her life.
Someone with the power to make her happier than she had ever imagined being. Someone who could leave her devastated. Someone who had the power to destroy her world.
Someone who had destroyed her world, leaving behind nothing but rubble.
Helena’s loving words echoed torturously in Myka’s brain, finding a strange, haunting rhythm with the hum of the tires as the truck barreled along Interstate 90 outside Bozeman, Montana. She’d given up on the radio hours ago, the lingering resonance of Helena’s voice in her head drowning out the songs of heartache on the country station. She glanced at the green road sign as she flew past. Just another two hours and she’d be there.
Helena, Montana: 193 miles.
She wasn’t certain what she was going to do when she got there. She only knew that it seemed a fittingly terrible end to what had begun as a fairytale. She’d never pictured herself as the tragic hero and yet, here she was, brought low by a fatal flaw, by hubris, by that greatest of sins: pride. The famous words of Othello’s last soliloquy whispered through her mind, taunting her.
“I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you speak
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well;”
Perhaps it was time for her own final soliloquy, she thought, pressing her foot a little more firmly on the gas.
Just a couple more hours to Helena.
Fewthistle
Warehouse 13
Myka/H.G.
Words: 2,621 Chapter 2/?
Disclaimer: Not mine. I would never squander H.G. Wells that way.
Spoilers: Through Season 2, Ep. 12, Reset.
Author’s Note: I hated the way Season 2 ended. I hated the waste of such an amazing character, seemingly written out of character to me, at least. I hated the waste of such amazing chemistry between Myka and H.G. So, I decided to fix it. Multi-chapters but I promise to finish them quickly. Honest. My first attempt at Warehouse 13, by the way, so be kind as I get the voices down.
Beta'd by the kind and lovely, darandkerry. Thanks, darlin'!
Chapter One here:
http://community.livejournal.com/passion_perfect/3249299.html
Chapter Two
Univille, South Dakota
“What the hell happened?” Pete demanded, storming into the room like a bull elephant, stopping short at the sight of his unconscious partner, her face wet with tears. “Is she sleeping or in a coma or what? And why’s her face wet? Artie, what the hell is going on? I mean, I leave for a few hours…”
H.G. remained silent, allowing Artie to answer the questions, intrigued as always by the brotherly affection that Pete harbored for Myka. She had worked with partners in the past, but never developed the relationship that existed between the two Secret Service agents. Perhaps it was her own inability to trust completely. Perhaps it was something else, something inside her that others could sense, something essential that she lacked, something that made them wary. People had always been wary of her. Everyone except Christina.
And Myka.
From their first meeting over the barrel of a gun, there was some indefinable quality, some fleeting recognition, as of strangers seeing in a new face some resemblance to one known and loved: the subtle sweep of a brow, the tender curve of a lip, the remembered color of the eyes. Some trace of the familiar in the alien.
And Myka had seen something else, as well, something good and solid, something she could rely on. Something few had ever seen: Helena’s heart. Damaged though it had been, there was in it still a drop or two of human kindness, of compassion. Of love.
She half-listened to the frenetic conversation between the two men, Artie’s tone beleaguered and tired, Pete’s voice loud and brash, the undertones of fear resonating like the bells of St. Peter’s, the sound vibrating like a tuning fork inside her. Odd, really. It had been so many years since she’d felt that kind of fear, felt the rush of protectiveness that seemed to erupt in her whenever Myka was near. It left her feeling off-balance and vulnerable, two things H.G. Wells despised.
And yet there it was.
“Dammit, Artie! Why doesn’t anyone know what’s wrong with her?” Pete demanded, his face reminding her for all the world of a very young, very frightened boy.
“I’m working on it, okay? There are no drugs in her system…don’t ask, it’d take too long to explain…she hasn’t passed out. There’s no sign of foul play. According to you and Claudia, she came upstairs around ten, presumably went to sleep and hasn’t woken up. Call me paranoid, but I’d say that clearly she’s come in contact with some artifact. The question is, which one and where is it.”
“She didn’t. Go to sleep that is,” H.G. said quietly, her glance at Artie through her eyelashes decidedly guarded.
“What’re you talking about?” The belligerence in the question was far greater than usual, an animosity so strong and real that it hovered like a wraith in the corner of the room, unpredictable and menacing.
“I was merely attempting to clarify. I presume you are tracing Myka’s movements last evening in order to either include or eliminate possible causes for her current condition, are you not?” H.G. stated carefully, her tone and facial expression determinedly neutral.
“What did you mean, she didn’t go to sleep?” Artie repeated, the glower on his face growing darker with every passing moment.
“She did come upstairs, but she didn’t go to bed immediately. She knocked on my door at half past ten. She came in and we talked for a little while,” H.G. began to explain, only to be interrupted by the sharp edge of Artie’s voice.
“Talked about what? She saw you most of the day. What did she have to talk to you about at eleven o’clock at night?”
“Half past ten. And I honestly don’t see what our conversation has to do with the current situation,” H.G. replied, the faint trace of a polite smile that touched her lips never reaching her eyes.
“I’ll decide what’s relevant and what isn’t. What did you talk about?” Artie demanded harshly, moving around the bed to advance toward H.G.’s position.
“It was a private conversation. I assure you, nothing in it could possibly have any connection to what’s happened to Myka.” There was a thin layer of steel in H.G.’s voice now.
“Artie, I’m sure it was just girl talk, you know, guys, clothes, shoes,” Pete began, only to be silenced by Artie’s patented death glare.
Artie advanced closer to H.G., his posture clearly threatening, brows lowered to one dark line across his forehead. “I’m not going to ask again. What did you and Myka talk about last night?”
“Nothing. Everything. We talked about what happened to her in Denver, about her family and her relationship with her father. She told me how my books, how all books, had been a refuge for her growing up. We talked about all sorts of things, none of which could possibly relate to her current condition,” H.G. said heatedly, dark eyes unflinching as she met Artie’s stare.
“Did she eat anything, drink anything while she was with you?” Artie asked, animosity in every clipped syllable.
“We had some tea. Since Claudia so kindly gave me an electric kettle, I can make tea in my room now.” Artie had her backed up between the bed and the far wall and Helena began to realize exactly how the lion felt as the tamer advanced with chair and whip at the ready. She wondered idly if Artie knew how often the lion won.
“Did you use tea bags? Mugs?” Artie demanded.
At another time, the look of disgusted outrage on H.G.’s face would have been comical. “Teabags? Mugs? Good God, no! I brewed a lovely pot of Assam. You can check it if you like. I was going to take them down and wash them this morning, but then I heard Claudia yelling for help. The pot and cups are still sitting on the table in my room. Check them. Check anything you like.”
Without another word, Artie turned and stormed out of the room. She heard the door to her room hit the wall as it was flung unceremoniously open. Pete remained frozen in a spot at the foot of Myka’s bed, a very forced, very apologetic grimace-like smile on his face.
“Listen, I know Artie can be a little, you know, intense, but it’s just ‘cause he’s worried. Kinda like a Momma Grizzly and her cubs,” Pete explained, eyes darting between Helena and the doorway, as sounds of less than careful searching issued forth from the room across the hall.
“I’m familiar with the sentiment,” Helena murmured, now that the attack was over, her attention fixed once more on what was important: Myka. She ran her thumb slowly back and forth over the smooth skin of Myka’s hand, her expression anxious and remarkably tender. “I would never hurt her. Never. Nor would I ever allow any harm to come to her were I able to prevent it.”
Her statement was met with silence from the other occupant of the room. Finally H.G. forced her gaze away from Myka’s face, glancing up in time to watch the realization dawn in Pete’s eyes, as bemusement was replaced with a knowing look and a slowly spreading, slightly puerile grin.
Men, she thought. Well, in a hundred years, some things haven’t changed.
“You like…” The rest of Pete’s sentence died quickly in his throat as Artie charged back into the room, his expression even more thunderous.
“If you poisoned her, I’ll find out,” Artie accused, his glasses riding low across the bridge of his nose.
“I didn’t poison her. I didn’t cast a spell on her. I didn’t hide some artifact away, waiting for just the right moment to strike. I did not, would not, do anything to harm her,” H.G. said quietly, the steady tone of her voice belying the dangerous flash of her dark eyes. “If there were an artifact in town, you would have already known it. I had nothing to do with this. Now, for God’s sake, please, stop focusing on me and start looking for what might have done this to her, before it’s too late.”
Helena met Artie’s glowering stare, forcing every ounce of sincerity into her voice, into her eyes, willing him to overcome his suspicions. Only when they heard the thud of Claudia’s footsteps on the stairs did Artie look away, his eyes falling to the prone figure on the bed, her hand still clasped in H.G.’s. He seemed about to speak when Claudia burst into the room.
“Okay,” she exclaimed, her breath coming in gasps, “I cross-referenced every known artifact with what we already have in the warehouse and I’m pretty sure I’ve narrowed it down to two artifacts. At least I hope I have. Do you know how many things there are out there that can put you to sleep, aside from Al Gore? Rocking chairs, baby rattles, a pair of Liberace’s shoes, which I totally don’t get, because you’d think…”
“Claudia!!” The three voices yelling her name brought her up short.
“Yeah, sorry. So I’ve narrowed it down to two. Both of them are supposed to be able to put people into a deep sleep. Washington Irving’s walking stick, or something called Frigg’s spindle.” Claudia finished quickly, sliding in close to Pete’s side as the wave of animosity in the room washed over her.
“If she touched one of them, why didn’t it take effect then? I mean, we got back from Pennsylvania yesterday morning. Why would it take that long to knock her out?” Pete asked, slipping his arm around Claudia’s thin shoulders.
“It may have been blocked by some outside agent. Maybe it was wrapped in something, a cloth or plastic, so that the contact was indirect,” Artie postulated, Claudia’s information doing little to allay his suspicions about H.G. Wells.
“Or it was broken,” Helena interjected, her head tilted to the side as she ran the possibilities through her mind. “Not broken as in no longer functioning, but literally broken. At Warehouse 12 we ran across several items that, while still powerful and potentially dangerous, had lost some of their potency because they were incomplete or in pieces.”
“Okay, first, what exactly is a spindle?” Pete asked with a puzzled frown.
“It’s used for weaving. It’s generally wood, thin and rounded, to wrap wool or yarn around.” Artie supplied. “Frigg was the Norse goddess of weaving and the hearth. Her spindle is thought to be the source of the Sleeping Beauty tales, although, trust me, this was no disgruntled fairy.”
“And Washington Irving wrote Rip Van Winkle, about a man who fell asleep for a hundred years. From all accounts, Irving was quite a delightful fellow, actually,” H.G. added, “although he always mourned the loss of his young fiancée, Matilda.”
“So, Myka could have picked up a piece of wood or stick or something?” Pete asked, searching his memory of their recent trip to a small community outside Allentown for something, anything that might help.
“A sliver.” Claudia muttered, eyes going wide as the implication struck her.
“Yes, I would imagine even a sliver would still hold some of the original power,” Artie began, only to find that he was the one interrupted this time.
“No, no! I mean, yes, but no. I meant, Myka had a sliver. In her finger. After you guys got back yesterday, H.G. and Pete were putting the anvil away and Myka asked me if I had any tweezers. She said she had a sliver in her thumb. I helped her take it out,” Claudia explained excitedly.
“What did you do with the piece of wood? Come on, Claudia, think!” Artie badgered, stepping close to the young woman and urgently grabbing her upper arm.
While he was questioning Claudia, Helena picked up Myka’s hands, examining first one, then the other, peering intently at the skin on her thumbs. A red spot where the skin was slightly puckered and pulled away on Myka’s right thumb was the only sign of the removal process.
“I don’t know. It was so small, it took us ten minutes to get it out. It probably fell on the floor, or got dropped in the trash. It was tiny. I mean, miniscule. I doubt we could find it even if I knew where it was.” Claudia answered, a slightly panicked look on her face.
“It doesn’t matter,” Helena told her soothingly, ignoring Artie’s angry look of distaste. “Clearly, the sliver was small enough that it held only a minor portion of the artifact’s power. Even if we found it and neutralized it, the effects would remain. We need to locate the original object.”
“Well then, Pennsylvania, here we come.” Pete pronounced. “Come on H.G. We got us an artifact to find. Don’t worry, Myka,” he reassured, squeezing Claudia’s shoulders again comfortingly, as he promised in his best Arnold voice. “We’ll be back.”
Helena didn’t even glance at Artie, knowing that the distrusting expression on his face would still be there, as it had been since she first reappeared at the Warehouse, despite the clear evidence that she hadn’t been responsible for what had happened to Myka. Had it been any other situation, Helena would have been intent on finding the object merely to prove herself to Arthur Nielsen, but not this time.
This time, all that mattered to her was Myka.
Outside Bozeman, Montana
“MacPherson may have been the one who unbronzed me, but you’re the one who brought me back to life.”
“Why, Agent Wells, what a delightfully, wonderfully sappy thing to say.”
Helena’s voice had been so tender, so full of love, her hand warm and real and solid as she gently cupped Myka’s cheek. Of course, Myka had joked about it, teasing Helena about the sentiment, as the emotions of the moment nearly overwhelmed her.
No one had ever made her feel so cherished, so loved. In a few short months, her life had undergone a transformation, no longer merely focused simply on her job and the Warehouse, but now on this remarkable woman who had eclipsed each and every one of her nearly abandoned hopes of finally finding someone to share her life.
Someone with the power to make her happier than she had ever imagined being. Someone who could leave her devastated. Someone who had the power to destroy her world.
Someone who had destroyed her world, leaving behind nothing but rubble.
Helena’s loving words echoed torturously in Myka’s brain, finding a strange, haunting rhythm with the hum of the tires as the truck barreled along Interstate 90 outside Bozeman, Montana. She’d given up on the radio hours ago, the lingering resonance of Helena’s voice in her head drowning out the songs of heartache on the country station. She glanced at the green road sign as she flew past. Just another two hours and she’d be there.
Helena, Montana: 193 miles.
She wasn’t certain what she was going to do when she got there. She only knew that it seemed a fittingly terrible end to what had begun as a fairytale. She’d never pictured herself as the tragic hero and yet, here she was, brought low by a fatal flaw, by hubris, by that greatest of sins: pride. The famous words of Othello’s last soliloquy whispered through her mind, taunting her.
“I pray you, in your letters,
When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,
Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,
Nor set down aught in malice: then, must you speak
Of one that lov'd not wisely but too well;”
Perhaps it was time for her own final soliloquy, she thought, pressing her foot a little more firmly on the gas.
Just a couple more hours to Helena.