It had been almost a week since the warehouse had burned down, taking both its massive store of artifacts and Helena G. Wells with it in a singular catastrophe that had shaken the agent to her very core. Even Pete had been comparatively quiet, and even Pete knew enough to leave Myka well alone until she was ready. The trouble was, Myka wasn't sure when she would be able to put it behind her, if ever. Even now, a week later, the pain of losing H.G. and the warehouse was so far off and yet so fresh, twisting the knife anew whenever she dared to think of it.
Part of her didn't think it would ever stop hurting. She relived it every night in her dreams. Every time she closed her eyes she was met with Helena's leveled gaze, so calm and so accepting of her fate as the timer hit zero and Myka's entire world was reduced to ash. At first it had made her angry that Helena seemed so at peace in those final moments when the agent had been so stunned, so paralyzed that she could do naught but stare upon the face of the woman who had given her so much grief and so much joy, even as it all went up in flames.
Then she remembered how the author had tilted her head and given her such a small and sorrowful smile as she mouthed their parting words; Helena had not trusted her voice, her customary bravado dashed when faced with the reality that this was the last time she would see Myka Bering.
How could she be angry with the woman who had left behind everything she had ever known, who had been so alone in this new world? Who, despite misguided actions of the past, had sacrificed herself just to save the one woman who knew her best in the world, and the lives of two individuals who had doubted her and conjured demons of who she was?
Myka knew why she had thanked her. With those two words, H.G. Wells said everything. She only wished she had had the courage and the time to say her own in kind.
The truth was, ever since the day they had met, Myka and Helena were bound together. Trapped in the inescapable and insistent pull of fate, she and Helena were never long away from each other, and even the author's plan of betrayal and destruction a hundred years in the making had cowed in the face of their gravity.
For everything the Warehouse had thrown at both of them, they had never seen each other coming.
H.G. Wells was the curveball life had thrown at her, and the one that had entirely taken her feet out from under her.
Myka blinked and lowered her chin, a few rich brown curls falling over her shoulder as she returned to the present once more. Her expression relaxed and she closed the book in gesture of defeat, a hand instead lifting and rubbing at her forehead. For the briefest instant the agent buckled and allowed the anguish to write itself plainly across her features in a private moment of vulnerability. Her throat tightened and her entire body trembled, tears springing through the numbing pain and falling down her cheeks as they broke free of eyes shut tight.
And then it passed. Agent Myka Bering sucked in a steeling breath and rose abruptly from her chair, swiftly wiping the remaining tears from her face. She would not allow herself this. Not now. Not when Helena needed her, and needed her strong.
Artie had been gone since the incident, pulled away by the Regents; it was no secret the higher ups were in a state of panic. With the destruction of the Warehouse, innumerable artifacts and the loss of several of their own throughout the ordeal against Sykes, things were so shaken that their future seemed wholly uncertain. Helena Grace Wells' death was the least of their concern.
It also happened to be why Pete awoke to a noise from across the hall. Artie's room. He rolled out of bed and swiped a hand over his face to dispel the last remnants of sleep, curious and expecting to see his boss returned.
"Artie-?" Pete called, rapping his knuckles on the wooden door as he nudged it open.
Myka, not Artie, was standing across from him and rifling through a drawer on the ground, its impact no doubt the culprit for what roused her partner from sleep. She had paused a moment in her work to look up when she noticed Pete in the doorway, a look of guilt flitting across features otherwise blankened by stunned surprise.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up," she voiced hastily while attempting to gauge her partner's reaction.
Pete stood dumbfounded for several more moments before regaining some semblance of control.
"What are you doing in here?"
"I wan...I'm looking for something."
"Did he call us?"
"No."
"So then..."
Pete trailed off, his mind slow to wake up in the mornings. Little by little the pieces filtered in and fit in their place. Clutched in her hands protectively as though he were going to try and snatch it from her was the jacket Artie was wearing eight days ago. Myka had a hand in the left pocket.
"The watch."
His partner eyed him carefully now.
"Look, Mykes, I know the loss of the warehouse hit us all hard, but Artie said we weren't allowed to use the artifact for our own benefit. That's what the Regents themselves said."
Myka glanced a way with a soft, dismissive sniff. Another piece fell into place. She had yet to remove her hand or relinquish the jacket from her white-knuckle grip. A familiar, nauseating feeling begin to creep into his gut.
"Myka. That's not what we do."
No response. He took a step forward and she shifted backward, her feet gathered beneath her as though poised to spring.
"We just have to accept and rebuild in a new location. It's what they do. It's what we do."
He extended a hand and the other agent leaned back away from it warily, her gaze traveling up his arm and locking on Pete's face.
"Myka, give me the jacket."
He saw the look she gave him. Her nostrils flared, muscles tensed. He knew that look well. It was determined, and grim, because Myka would stop at nothing once her mind was set to it. Grudgingly realization settled that this was a battle he had lost before it even started.
"Pete, we lost everything. We lost Helena," she ventured slowly, cautiously.
"She made it so we got out alive, Myka. She did what she had to so, the only thing any of us could do."
Myka began shaking her head, slowly at first and then more vehemently, her curls tossing from side to side.
"No, Pete," she insisted, her voice faltering with the tears that now welled in her eyes once more. "She didn't have to die. There must have been something we missed."
"Myka, please."
"I can save her."
"You can't change what happened in the past. Don't you remember her and Christina?"
"I know I can."
"Myka-"
Pete was cut short as Myka finally pulled her hand from the jacket, the gleam of the pocketwatch catching through her fingers. Its face read another time, hands frozen. Before he could react, the woman pressed her thumb on the top knob and winked out of existence. The repulsory wave of energy expelled from the sudden shift in the time stream knocked Pete backward and out cold.
"Look out!" Pete blurted, wielding a butane torch as he pushed between Myka and Artie, jostling his partner to sudden awareness.
She knew this moment and a quick glance around the room confirmed what time the watch had landed her in. The bomb was still ticking down on the center table, even in spite of her partner's efforts, Artie stood to the side of her attempting to reason out of their situation, and H.G.-Myka quickly jerked her attention to the corner and was rewarded.
The sight of Helena bowed over the box of wires, toiling quietly and unbeknownst to her companions, was enough to cause a knot to rise in Myka's throat. She choked it back by reminding herself that time was, yet again, running out.
Jolting forward, she shoved past Pete, who had abandoned his attempt and begun to peel the purple gloves from his hands in a show of defeat.
"Helena, stop!" Myka blurted as she reached a hand for the author's shoulder. "You don't have to do this, there has to be another way!"
The Victorian woman turned around, a stripped wire brandished in each hand, her lips parted slightly in unvoiced surprise.
Pete's voice called out behind her. "Do what? What is she doing?"
"I stripped the wires. An anomaly in the circuitry will allow me to redirect a portion of the forcefield to a spot here," she explained breathlessly. With a quirk of her lips to a fleeting false smile, she dropped her voice a touch and added directly to Myka: "And yes, I do. I am afraid that's the only way any of us will make it out alive, darling."
Artie piped up reluctantly, "But you would have to do it from outside the field."
She hesitated. "Yes, but-"
The timer read 46 seconds left.
Pete stepped forward, shaking his head. "No, no, no," he said, "I'm an agent. You're not."
"And?" H.G. scoffed.
"And I'm trained to take a bullet."
Indignant, Helena stood and shot back incredulously, "A bullet, not a bomb, Agent Lattimer."
39 seconds.
"What's the difference?"
"The difference is this is my fault."
"He had an artifact and used it to manipulate you, it's not like you helped him on purpose."
"It doesn't matter!" Helena snapped, her voice rising and breaking shrilly. The outburst silenced the room.
28 seconds.
The lull brought Myka back to her senses and she pleaded, "Please, don't argue, we have to-"
"I am the one who betrayed you," Helena cut her off, voice pained. "I led you all astray and stabbed you in the back once I was sure I had your trust. I did that on -purpose.- And even in spite of all this, in spite of myself..." She trailed off, a short, dry laugh punctuating the pause as she tossed her head back to divert her gaze to the ceiling. It disguised her effort to blink back tears and recompose her faltering speech.
21 seconds.
Her chin lowered again and a grateful smile at the woman before her graced the author's lips. "You forgave me, and you took me back. So please, Myka." She pressed a slender finger to her lips, thereby silencing any objection, any interruption. Her voice fell, wavering with emotion even in the urgency with which she spoke. "Please, let me give back. Let me make things right. Let me do this."
Agent Bering was spared a response as she felt Artie's hand close on her shoulder and gently but insistently pull her away from the dark-haired woman.
"We don't have time to argue this with her, Myka. She wants to do it." His tone was oddly sensitive, and yet firm. "It's her or all of us."
Twelve seconds.
H.G. Wells sparked the wires together and the shimmering translucent shell crackled into existence, encasing Myka, Pete and Artie. With a brave attempt at a smile, she stepped forward and locked eyes with Agent Bering, a trace amount of fear hiding in those shining dark depths.
"How do you say goodbye to the one person who knows you best in the world?"
"I wish I knew," Myka breathed.
The agent's words softened Helena's expression and the look she returned was of such fondness and sudden assurance, even as Myka once more found herself powerless facing the utter destruction of everything she held dear.
Five.
The tick of the timer was deafening.
Tilting her head to the side, H.G. smiled again at the agent opposite of her, a note of sorrow and finality hidden within it, and mouthed, "Thank you."
Three.
Wonder and relief flooded her porcelain features, eliciting a soft sigh from the author. Nostalgia drew a peaceful veil over her, gilding her final moments with painless memories, Myka watching from behind the forcefield and the tears stinging her eyes.
"I smell apples."
One.
Frantic desperation seized Myka.
"Helena, I-"
The world was on fire.