You have no idea why Joanna has called you here. The past few days have been fraught with stress, and you know you have neither the strength nor patience to battle her. And when you arrive someone is already there, whatshisname. His dark circles mirror yours, and you shoot him some sympathy vibes when your eyes meet.
Joanna looks between you and him. "Emergency meeting. Henrik has just told me something really disturbing."
You stare coldly at her, waiting for her to continue.
She takes a deep breath. Closes her eyes. Opens them. Voice wavering: "That monolith is hollow. Sinclair pushed him down the pyramid. Nancy's been carrying on with his work. And she and the keys are nowhere to be found."
"Calm down, Joanna," you sneer. You're in no mood for her melodrama.
Her eyes fix on you, and her mouth tightens. "You're not off the hook. We'll discuss your scheming and underhandedness later, dear. Now you two have to help me scour the museum and hope I'm wrong."
"There's no way that she could have gotten them all by now. For me it was months of work."
"I know she's got the Pacal. She has both of Henrik's keys. Daddle and Dada are apparently related. Yesterday Sinclair was screaming for hours about defaced artwork and dollar values. He stole the last two, so I'm really keen that those four don't fall into his hands." She turns on her foot and stalks out of her office, followed by a tall, anxious shadow. You are the last to leave, moving slowly to distance the growing knot in your chest.
Joanna gives you a temple key card, shoves you off. You split off; you check the pyramid. Over and over you call Nancy's name in the shadows, and it's too much of a question, so much of a question that your stomach churns.
You even check the tomb. With gritted teeth you pull the lid one, two inches, then wrench it open when your anger flares.
This girl has helped you, at your state of limit, at her own peril.
The fog clears from your eyes.
It is empty, thank God.
Wiping a bead of sweat from between your eyes, you curse the dank bottom level of the pyramid.
You know you have to keep trying. You have always had to keep trying. You could never have stopped trying, no matter all the times you wanted to. The artifacts' stories and significance would not let you. You have loved them from childhood; they were your friends when you hardly had any. After years they are the only real thing in an unreal world.
After crossing the bridge and opening the door, you stop, scan the room one last time. There's no choice, though you almost wish she were here. Then you pull it shut. Suddenly you're blind. You wish you hadn't hurled away that glowstick in impatience after closing the tomb.
It takes you a good 45 seconds, but you make it through there without falling. And then you're outside.
Joanna comes running and grabs your arm, dragging you toward the other side of the monolith. "Sinclair's in the garden. I heard his voice!"
You go around and around the monolith. She scours the garden. After nothing turns up, she huffs. Then freezes. Then looks up. "He's still in the museum."
You both get moving.
"It was only a few seconds ago I heard him; I know he's got to be—"
A sound stops you. You grab Joanna's elbow and look back to the monolith.
A faint cry.
You're sure.
But for the next twenty seconds all you can hear is the low breeze rubbing leaves together.
Barely have you started to move again when you hear it again.
Something.
Joanna's eyes are wide. Her mouth is open.
"I'm suffocating in here!"
Your chest tightens.
"Let me out!"
A female voice.
Nancy.
It has to be.
Joanna closes her eyes. A low sound leaves her throat.
You half-see the other oblivious figure who approaches and can only tell him in as few words and breaths as possible what's happening.
No suggestion.
No solution.
He rushes around the monolith, kneeling with his hands cupped in front of him as if he is holding a large cube.
For a moment you forget the current crisis and watch in astonishment. Does he know what the key is supposed to look like?
"Oh, no," Joanna says, finally able to speak. "Not my deputy too!" She turns. "Henrik, you have stone-cutting tools, right? For those bowls you made for the top of the temple?"
You wrack your brain for any way out of this ordeal. In the temple there wasn't anything sharp or anything sturdy. As soon as you heard the news you had that hunch. Was there anything in Joanna's office? No, not from the way she's acting now. Anything blunt to break the rock? Anything to make a breathing hole? Nancy's soft blue eyes eat away at yours from somewhere, ghostlike, and you hope that it's only apprehension, not intuition. That her lovely youth does not stop here. Despite your vision gone ashen to match the world's cruelties, despite those years of wearying work that first steeled your heart then stopped it.
Vaguely you're aware of words, nervous volume, the word 'police,' the word 'hurry.'
You want to slap the phone out of his hand.
By the time they get here, it'll be too late.
Of course you aren't fully convinced. It's silly, absurd. But there it is, the diminutive spark of hope, gone for all for the years you were sure you were dead.
High, ragged breaths reach your ears.
Your head snaps over. Nancy?
Joanna.
She stays like that for a few seconds, and she dashes out of your peripheral vision when you're looking back at the monolith.
You look around in the garden for something to bash into the structure. The stands with the information plates might do the trick.
You think.
Is there time to think?
In a few seconds more Joanna's back, voice swinging erratically—she can't find the stone cutting tools. She can't find the stone cutting tools. She can't find the goddamn tools. You don't know. Why is she looking at you?
You all stop. You all stand, physically drained, mentally blank.
The futility leads to restless, bitter calm. There is nothing you can do now but hope.
And you know, even if she is dead, that your heart is still agile. From her helping you, from her taste for justice, you remember that the world was once vibrant and compassionate, that there were others who cared and who shirked the universal obsession with money and worth.
The breeze turns cool. You cross your arms over your chest. Your eyes keep darting back to the information plates.
Joanna lowers her head. She puts one hand on her hip and raises the other to the bridge of her nose.
Henrik stands with his hands free, with that same air of calm, assurance that Nancy will figure it out.
And maybe he's right.
He seems to remember everything, his work, the shape of the key, plus the fact that he's been doing this for years. He knows what's possible, what's probable.
He knows if there's a way out from within.
And if there is a way, Nancy would find it.
Sighing, Joanna lowers her arm to her other hip and tries to clear the distress from her face.
Just then something cracks.
You freeze.
The sound of crunching stone reaches you.
Your smile soars past your ears.
You open your eyes. You breathe.
You are the first to speak.
AN: Yeah, I wrote this in response to a conversation with hansbmd about how weird it was that those three were just standing outside of the monolith and not trying to help Nancy as she was suffocating to death. While I'm not convinced that there was much they could have done, they were way too relaxed when Nancy came out. Granted, there were a few seconds when Nancy couldn't see them (as she was emerging from the tomb) during which they might have had time to compose themselves, or go from being immensely frightened to immensely relieved. But still…
Maybe I'm departing a bit from the normal Alejandro by portraying him to be jaded, but honestly, who wouldn't be, what with all the crap of false provenance records, looting and pillaging from ungrateful explorers, robbing from archaeological sites. At least he isn't resigned to an unhappy ending for Mexico. Anyway, hopefully it isn't too out of character for him.
The second person thing is a bit of an experiment, as I've always been drawn to that POV but don't really write in it much. Anyway, if you dislike my temporary deviance here, fear not: I'll continue writing stories in this fandom in good old normal third.