AN: I do not own Warehouse 13 nor the characters. An exploration of H.G. Wells immediately following the events that transpired in 2x12 Reset, so spoilers if you have gotten this far without noticing that.
H.G. knew she deserved no pity. She deserved no mercy, no privileges. When the door rattled and swung open, she had no time to shield herself from the biting shaft of sunlight that quickly followed.
Impassively, she listened. She doubted anyone would see her.
Not Claudia, who she repaid her naiveté with cruel misuse of gained skills.
Not Pete, when through her actions his love was used and abused and left to wither away what bonds he may have had with his Kelly.
Not Artie, who proven correct, would be too much of a gentleman to gloat.
Not Leena, who she had only begun to discover in quiet times in the middle of the night over tea, talking of everything and nothing, who always managed to look at her with knowing eyes that made her uncomfortable.
And certainly not Myka. Sweet, sweet, fresh faced Myka. Who meant more to H.G. than H.G. would ever tell.
She doubted anyone would see her.
She didn't ask to see anyone.
She didn't speak.
The Regents pulled her out of the car. They stripped her of the artifacts she still wore, prying open her locket with rough fingers. She had no energy left to muster outrage, and stood unmoving, letting the locket fall back against her chest, the metal cold again.
Why did they allow her to keep that trinket? Once a memory of something she held so dear, it had no power over anyone but herself, a privilege she should not have to keep. A locket bestowed with a new power. A blistering condemnation of all she had failed. Those she had failed.
Christina's voice whispered to her of all she had lost.
More Regents talked at her, prodded her, ran batteries of tests on her. Was she still capable of escape? Perhaps. If she lunged for that Tesla, elbowed that neck, swept her leg under those legs. But there would be no point for doing so.
What would one say to someone who tried to end the world? Who hadn't tried enough? Who couldn't discern the real world from the world they had created for themselves over decades of self-imposed exile? Who twisted themselves into something they didn't recognize.
No one would know what to say to her.
She knew this.
She accepted it.
She expected it.
But one did come.
She stood across the room, stared at her with stony eyes. She ranted. Raved. Cried. She begged, shouted, and begged again. Commanded. Threatened, voice full of fury and panic, cracking and dying. Then she finally pleaded with her, grabbing her arms and shaking her to speak, speak, explain and make it make sense. Make everything okay. Right. Understandable.
Make everything that had happened between them not a lie.
But H.G. could not answer. She could not craft words to be what was asked of her. She deserved to be punished, to be shut away. To be alone.
She didn't deserve to be loved. She couldn't be loved.
She shouldn't be loved.
She didn't tell Myka any of this.
Myka, sweet, sweet, fresh faced Myka, who meant more to H.G. than H.G. would ever tell her, Myka, who forced her to confront the very things she feared, Myka, the woman who loved her, Myka, who gasped and staggered back, her heart breaking in her eyes when H.G. was taken away without saying a single word.
It was that Myka H.G. would remember for the rest of her life.
However long that would be.
How very empty that would be.