Title: The Windows Between Reality
Author: LadyNRA
Rating: PG
Spoilers: Nothing that fans don't know already
Characters: Artie, Pete, Myka, Leena, cameo by Claudia, and a few surprise guests
Genre: Drama (more or less)
Disclaimer: The producers and Syfy may own it but I'm taking the time to play with the characters (especially Artie) for a little while.
Summary: A certain Warehouse supervisor takes a journey he isn't prepared for and gets a little help from his friends in order to get back.
Author's Note: I tried to keep this in line with the tone of Warehouse 13 episodes. A bit fluffy but not too much. Some of you will think I borrowed the idea from a current TV program or one from a few years ago, but the basic theme has been around far longer than that, so please don't see it as a rip off of that current show. It was actually based off of a dream I had back in April (2011) and, with encouragement from friends, I decided to create a story based on the dream. Many thanks to KJay99 for beta reading this for me.
The Windows Between Reality
By LadyNRA
"Here it is, boss!" the sandy-haired man stated as he handed over a thick manila folder to his significantly shorter and stouter supervisor.
The older man before him was stroking his graying goatee in his typically contemplative manner albeit with more noise and force than usual. A thick fingered hand absent-mindedly reached out for the folder and, without a single glance at the contents, tossed it onto the table with a loud thwack. Soon he recommenced the incoherent muttering which had earned him strange looks all morning.
Washed out blue eyes hardened and darkened. "Hey aren't you going to look at it?"
"At what?" his boss asked, never taking his eyes off the monitor even as his hands returned to the keyboard before him.
That comment made the guy growl slightly, an ineffectual sound because the recipient was too preoccupied to hear it or too oblivious to pay it any heed. "I worked hard on that, and you told me it was urgent. I figured you'd at least want to take a peek at the information."
Dark brown eyes under dense eyebrows slowly drifted toward him. "Yeah, Carl. You're right. Let's see it."
Carl's perpetual frown lines deepened. Instead of picking up the recently discarded folder, he pointed at it. He'd be damned if he was going to play this game.
True, his superior was "distracted", unusually so, even for him. All morning, Agent Nielsen had gone way beyond that description and seemed to be mentally residing out in the ozone somewhere. But Carl had no intention of trying to drag him back to reality. It often meant more work for him.
It took several seconds for Nielsen to stop his aggravated muttering and regain some semblance of coherence. He jabbed his slipping glasses and wet his dry lips. In spite of that, he couldn't keep his eyes from straying back and forth between junior agent and computer screen.
Carl studied him, wondering what would drive such a reputedly eccentric individual even farther into 'madness'. He leaned against the opposite desk and rapped on its scarred surface twice, a put up or shut up gesture he often used for self motivation.
Finally, he relented and decided to be 'helpful'. His voice grew soft and tinged with compassion. "It's right there, remember?"
Arthur Nielsen's right eyebrow twitched in consternation. Clearly his memory, which was generally superb and awe-inspiring, had flagged. Glancing down and heaving an audible sigh, he scooped it up. The contents of the folder were soon splayed out in front of him.
"No, no, this can't be," he murmured through lips drawn into a tense line. Those furry eyebrows knit together so suddenly they looked as if they were about to crash and burn in a spectacular wreck. Fortunately the wreck was averted when his eyes locked on the dossier's photos at the bottom of the pile.
Another breathy sigh escaped him. "I know them...at least I think I do."
"Yeah, so?" the agent named Carl Corcoran responded.
"Never mind, Carl," Agent Nielsen told him softly as his mind drew in on itself again.
Corcoran drew in a breath and held it. Called Corky by everyone there except his superior, Carl often wondered if this was his boss's way of maintaining a profession distance. Since it was not at all unusual for agents to die in the line of duty, he assumed that for some people, not getting too personal was their way of handling it. Unconsciously, he shrugged, and slowly released the breath with a gentle sound that bordered on a whistle.
"Those are the guys you were tracking down aren't they?" he queried in as mild a tone as he could muster. Yelling at the boss would only earn him a 50/50 chance of getting a complete answer and he really, really needed the answer to this one although he couldn't exactly verbalize why it was so important to him.
"Yeah…yeah, uh—" Nielsen stopped short as his eyes caught something seemingly unexpected. He scrolled down on the keyboard again. The schematics there revealed miles and miles of underground storage areas on several sublevels of the office building complex. Those sublevels extended well beyond what was currently showing on the screen.
Something was off about the whole arrangement but once again, Artie couldn't figure out why. A hasty check of the monitoring equipment showed everything was as it should be both down there and all the way up to his level. No sounds issued from his throat except for a confused grunt or two.
Damn, the other agent thought ruefully, make that a 25/75 chance he'd get a coherent answer, even with yelling. "So what's so special about them?" Corky asked pointedly, trying to lean in for a better look. His gangly frame, so much taller than Nielsen's, succeeded in visually bridging the distance between the two desks.
Without answering, Artie glanced around the room, taking stock of his surroundings with more intensity than he had in a very long time. The suite of offices they were in, top level to be exact, unless one counted the penthouse level, looked exactly like every other suite in the structure. Tan walls, brown, beige and blue industrial carpeting, standard industrial blinds on the main window, serviceable clocks on the walls.
The only oddity was the noticeable absence of cubicle walls. Everyone had a great view of everyone else. Hastily, he noted each of the room's occupants, eight in all if he didn't count himself. Three women, five men all told. Most of them in the early thirty something range although Corky was slightly younger and Bernie Gleason was pushing forty five and looked like it. In fact, he looked older; at least as old as Artie who had better than ten years on him. All of these people, Carl and Bernie included, were his responsibility.
Still ignoring his junior agent, he turned his exhausted body and mind back to the dossiers on his desk. The two faces, similar to those found on his earlier computer search, gazed back at him; one male, one female. Both were irritatingly familiar. Like a persistent tickle at the edges of his memory, those faces had nagged at him the entire morning.
Whispers and murmurs tugged at outskirts of his mind as he gazed down. Shadows and ghosts of images danced in and out of his recollections before he could firmly grasp and bring them to the surface. Now he had their files in front of him but no answers were forthcoming aside from the basic information contained within. Nothing definite sprang to mind although the nagging sensations didn't dissipate one bit. Another short rumble of frustration emanated from deep within his chest.
Corky bit his full lower lip with white but slightly crooked front teeth. He didn't get where he was without being persistent, he reminded himself. "Okay, what's so important about Peter Lattimer and Myka Bering? I mean, I get it. Sort of. They're one of us. Secret Service. But they are on White House detail most of the time."
Hopeful that an answer might be just around the corner, Carl paused for breath to give his boss a chance to reply. None was forthcoming. Since he couldn't corral his curiosity that easily, he went on.
"What I'm saying is it's obvious they wouldn't normally have anything to do with us. Heck, they don't know we exist. And they wouldn't believe us if we told them what we really do…even if we could tell them. So why look into them? Mrs. Frederic wanting to replace Gilbert and Jennings? Or are they on the radar because of some suspicious activity?"
Artie gave him a gimlet stare but maintained silence. Instead, he leaned back in his worn office chair and began a slow, steady rocking. When the obnoxious squeal of the springs became too much, Corky gave a disgusted frown and turned away.
It was then that Agent Nielsen dragged the still open folders across the desk for a more thorough look.
