Set two years after Warehouse 13 has been destroyed Myka uses HG Wells's time machine to search for Victor Hugo's pamphlet Napoleon le Petit. There she accidently runs into the one person she was trying to avoid.
AN: This is my first fic for Warehouse 13, please be nice and review. I am the only one that is betaing this, please excuse any spelling or grammar errors. I have taken many liberties including time, H.G. Well's wealth growing up, and London itself (since I've never been there). Please forgive me. There is femslash ahead, be warned now.
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It had been two years since the Warehouse had been destroyed; if Myka was honest with herself it had been two years since she herself had died. Oh the shell of her old self was still here, snagging, bagging, and tagging but it wasn't the same. The pocket watch had reversed the effects of the explosion restoring the Warehouse and its Keeper but nothing else was saved. It had taken months for them to function again and after two long grueling years' things seemed to be settling into a normal rut, well as normal as things could ever be. They had all been affected deeply by what had happened but were slowly moving forward. At the current moment Myka was pacing back and forth in front of the HG Wells storage area.
"Artie I'm not sure this is a good idea." Her fingers nervously played with the locket that had adorned her neck since the day HG had died.
"And you think I do? Myka I don't want you to use this thing but we have to get eyes on the pamphlet! It is making the Prime Minister go insane! If we can find out where it is then we can simply snag it and bag it here and now."
"Tell me again why we can't simply go to England and look for it now?"
"Security Myka, we've been over this before, we couldn't get close enough in such a short time. I would send Pete but given the circumstances I can't. This worked before in the glass girl case, even though it was against my wishes, and it will work again now." He ushered her to the chair, "Please."
Myka rubbed the back of her neck, she didn't want to go back, and she knew if she did she would be tempted to seek out the one person she would never be able to see again. She wanted Pete to go but he had an emergency appendicitis earlier that morning and Artie would not wait. She looked over at Claudia who was hooking up the machine to its new power source and setting the date back from the 1960's to 1885. "It will be perfectly safe Myka, I promise. I've updated it some; you should be able to take your own body…well, not physically. Your body will be projected onto the person you are inhabiting. Cool huh?" Claudia smiled but it didn't quite meet her eyes. Myka couldn't remember the last time she saw her friend truly happy.
"But, how are we sure the pamphlet isn't somewhere on Guernsey? I mean that is where it was written." She asked, stalling Artie from pushing her down into the contraption.
"Yes but the Prime Minister of England hasn't been to Guernsey in the past year."
Myka rolled her shoulders and looked up at the ceiling. She would be in London at the same time Helena was, she didn't know if she could control herself. She did the math in her head; the writer would be nineteen at the time, she would be a young woman, someone she never met. Myka took a deep breath, she would do her job and if there was time she would perhaps stroll by the Wells' manor, maybe she could catch a glimpse. "Okay, let's get started."
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She had forgotten about the unbelievable splitting head ache that accompanied time travel. Her knees hit the cobblestone hard and she groaned. Looking up at the gray sky she could tell it was early morning, very early morning. The oil lamps that lined the street had yet to be extinguished. She looked around in awe; she was standing in Victorian England on a rainy morning. Letting out a laugh she dusted herself off she took stock of her body; it was a woman, in her early 20's she guessed, in surprisingly good shape. Turning to her right she looked into a store front's window to try and make out her reflection. The glass had a film of mist covering it; making it difficult to see. As she tried to get a better angle she wondered what on earth this young woman was doing out on the street this early in the day. A shot of fear went through her, what if she was transported into a prostitute's body? Finally getting a decent angle in the glass her stomach rolled, the image looking back at her was none other than Helena Grace Wells.
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