The characters and events alluded to did not come from my head. They came from someone else's head. Oh, that lucky, lucky someone else's head...
The two women stood before the bathroom mirror, facing their reflections, facing the future. Myka took her toothbrush from the cup, hitting HG's hand on the way. It was early, and they smiled groggily at each other in the mirror at this accidental touch. Myka felt her body wake as the cool mint of her toothpaste filled her mouth. It was exciting – this new mission. She was going to Egypt – she was going to Egypt with HG. She would be exploring ancient pyramids and forgotten artifacts – and she would be doing this with HG. This idea excited her, and she found herself imagining scenes of their yet-to-be explorations while absentmindedly staring into the reflection of HG's dark eyes.
HG's dark eyes stared back, solid and firm. Yet behind them, in her mind, voices she wished could be as well-defined as the red and blue lines of her toothpaste filled her brain, knocked on her skull. The voices swam in her head, playing with her thoughts, tugging at her reasoning, hacking at her logic. There was the voice, the constant voice, of Christina's murder, reminding her of the cruelty of humanity. There was the voice that spoke not in words but in furious emotions, in angry waves of entrapment, in frustration, in panic (this voice had not yet learned to speak, as it had been born in the bronze and had not adjusted to the light of day). It told her, without words, that she had to escape – escape what? – it didn't matter. She had to escape, escape this place, this world, the confines of her body, the people who smiled at her, the people at whom she smiled.
(She smiled though her toothbrush at the Myka in the mirror. The Myka in the mirror smiled back.)
There was the voice of planning – her cunning, devious voice which had spent over a hundred years meticulously mapping out every last move to destroy humanity, to destroy the humanity which had destroyed her Christina, which had shattered her own heart. There was the voice of guilt and shame for sinking so low and for – well, she had done horrible things, hadn't she? And they were not justified, and she knew this underneath layers of arguing on the contrary. But then. But then there was the voice of the sun, reminding her of how much life mattered. There was the voice of the Warehouse, reminding her what it felt like to be needed by something other than the dust of the bronze sector. And there was the voice of Myka. Of a friend. Of someone who took her broken heart in her hands and put it back together with nimble fingers.
This trip would mean something. It would mean many somethings, and Myka didn't know she was standing next to the person who would decide which somethings it would mean. HG could stop it. She could stop it right now. She could decide to step on the plane to Egypt as Helena, agent at Warehouse 13, and fight to save Mrs. Frederic. Or she could step on the plane as H.G. Wells, the infamous agent of Warehouse 12 still shaking with grief and still shaking flecks of bronze off her skin and mind and soul, and fight to end the world.
The voices rushed about inside her, rattling her bones and making her lose her sense of being on this earth. She was only a case, a case of voices, and she was losing herself. She was losing her grip on – she held on. She held onto Myka's eyes in the mirror, still shining at her. She held onto Myka, to the idea of Myka, to everything Myka was.
Myka often wondered what HG thought about in the morning when they brushed their teeth together. It had become a routine, a shy one at first, but now they spent these two minutes boldly gazing at each other in the mirror – and what did it mean? It had been a natural pull – she had wanted to be close to HG, she had wanted to please her, she had wanted to make her smile. But now. But now her heart fluttered and her breath caught and she felt an old ache reawakening. Maybe it was time to tell her. Maybe it was time for more than an accidental touch. Maybe it was time to gaze into HG's eyes, not in the mirror, but an inch before her, a second before their lips –
No, there would be time for that later. Time for that after Egypt, she promised herself.
There would always be time later. That's why she had never said it. That's why she never said I love your eyes I love your hair I love your laugh I love your beauty I love your mind I love the way you make me feel I love you – no, she meant there would always be time to say I appreciate you as a friend, later. Which is why Myka rinsed, spat, wiped her mouth and said, "Ready?" She left the bathroom, leaving her frighteningly real emotions on the floor.
HG, her toothbrush still in her mouth, watched the bouncy head of curls retreat into the hallway, feeling a part of her sanity and a part of humanity leave as well. Myka hadn't even waited, she was just – she was just gone. And the cold tiles underfoot felt colder and the reflection in the mirror felt harsher.
This would have been a good day for Myka to say those things. Lost in herself, lost in the world, clinging to a clock that ticked to fast, HG spat into the sink. There was no more time to think, there was no more time to pretend brushing your teeth with another woman meant anything more than just that, because there was a plan in place and it was forcing her to act, pulling her strings as if she were a puppet. The mind she had had while encased in bronze overcame her, and she simply could not ignore a hundred years' worth of thinking any longer. She wiped her mouth, getting rid of the tooth paste reminder of Myka and their morning routine.
She had a job to do.