Author's Note: Well, I am pleasantly surprised! Feedback has been so positive! A few folks even said they'd like to see more, so HERE IT IS. Now, this is my first attempt at a multi-chapter fic. We'll see where it takes us. Thanks to all who reviewed…I very much appreciate it! And now, the perfunctory SPOILER WARNING. If you haven't seen season 3 (or 2, or 1) of Warehouse 13, then I advise you to turn around and go watch it and not read this fic, because spoilers abound.

Disclaimer: I don't own Warehouse 13. If I did, Pete the Ferret would have made a guest appearance in the finale. I do own all spelling mistakes though.

Chapter 1: Changed

Undisclosed location in the Badlands

The umbilicus is cold.

It stretches before her, bathed in the harsh white light of fluorescent tubes above. The lights are different, but the umbilicus has always been cold, from what she can recall. It's such a sterile environment… so different from the almost organic warmth of Artie's office.

She falters midstride. A pinprick of pain flares alongside the memory of his office. She shakes her head and ignores it. She's got plenty of experience, ignoring the things that hurt.

She resumes her brisk pace. Her eyes fall on the retinal scanner close to the door. Of course, her retinal imprint won't be in the database. Not that it matters.

Her fingers brush the cool metal of the scanner, and in an instant she's got the cover plate off of the device, revealing the tangle of wires and computer chips underneath. She sighs contentedly. Machines are so constant. Rarely do they change. Rarely do they abandon you. Rarely do they up and die.

It takes mere seconds to disable the scanner. This isn't the first time she's hacked the device. Though to be fair, the first time around it did take a bit of work.

The door hisses as it swings open, the mechanical clank so familiar and yet slightly off. Like a cover of a favorite song: the same, yet different. It's quieter now, and quicker. She's not sure how she feels about that.

She climbs the stairs and ducks inside the office, carefully pulling up her hood. The gesture would have been useless against the durational spectrometer, but bulky security cameras show that they haven't been using that particular artifact for quite a while. She looks around the office as an odd mixture of feelings spring forth. Anger. Sadness. Disappointment. Nostalgia. She can't decide if she feels safe here, or if she feels threatened. Maybe a little of both.

Of course the office, like the door, is different now. More streamlined. Gone are the rusty metal beams, the odd mixture of dated technology. Artifacts do not sit on the bookshelves anymore. She doesn't go into the records room, but she knows it will be virtually empty. The small, makeshift kitchen is no longer there…nor the spiral staircase to the loft. Such a staircase would be somewhat pointless, as there is no more 'loft' to go to.

Even the light is different. It's more intense, like the lighting in the umbilicus. It makes hard lines and dark shadows everywhere. She finds she doesn't like it. She prefers the soft-focused look of the old office. Worn edges. Red hues. The subtle light spilling in from the Warehouse floor.

You could change it. A small voice at the back of her mind tells her. You could make it the way it was.

She frowns. She's wasting time.

She pulls her jacket closer and approaches the sparse desk. She notices that there is one less desk chair now. She convinces herself it doesn't bother her.

The computer is new. An up-to-date Mac that looks just as sterile and straight-edged as the umbilicus outside. It shouldn't be in the office. Artie must hate it.

She frowns again. God, what's wrong with her?

Her hands settle on the keyboard and begin to fall into a familiar rhythm. Windows jump to the screen; tiny error messages cause a melody of beeps to emit from the computer. One by one, they disappear. Her frown begins to thaw, and a satisfied smirk takes its place. Once again, the comfort of machines wins out.

She finds the file she's looking for. Unfortunately, it's inundated with information about failing containment units, lack of neutralizer, budget cuts, complaints from town, the new chain of command…

Her frown returns. This might take longer than she's planned for.

She skims the individual reports. It has to be here somewhere. Her gaze shifts to the windows overlooking the Warehouse floor. She could just go down and look for it, really...

She's about to leave the computer, but a brief flash of a file label, K39ZZZ 10-18-11, catches her attention. She quickly opens it, reads through the content. A cold feeling spreads through her. Her face hardens. The words bring to mind things she'd rather forget.

She straightens, ready to abandon this whole idiotic scheme, but she reads the last line.

Artifacts in containment: PW2229, aisle 12, section D. JM3872, aisle 12, section 9F…

She recognizes one of the artifact codes. JM3872. She knows it by heart.

What she doesn't recognize is the new filing system. But she expected this—the Warehouse is significantly smaller now. No need for such a complex way of shelving anymore.

She jots down the information on her hand and heads for the door. Outside the office, the air is slightly stiff and a tad cooler. It no longer carries the musty aroma of a museum. Instead, it smells of plastic and wood and metal. More like Home Depot than America's Attic. Rows of shelves stretch back to the end of the Warehouse—which is visible now. Another difference. Rather, another disappointment.

She heads for the stairs, and soon she's down among the scattered boxes and crates. There are significantly fewer items on the new, uniform shelves. All are labeled with video screens.

The one thing that hasn't changed is the darkness. The lighting is the same diffused yellow glow of Shelby Bulbs.

"You know, these bulbs, they never burn out. They're Shelby Bulbs. They were invented by Chaillet one hundred and eight years ago…" Artie's gruff voice echoes hauntingly in her ears. Words from a lifetime ago.

She moves on.

It takes a few minutes for her to navigate the new layout. Eventually, though, she's standing in front of aisle 12, section 9F. Her eyes scan the video screens and she can't keep the grin off her face.

See Artie? I knew you'd cave to modern technology. She's quite pleased that he has…the video readouts are much easier to see than the yellowed artifact cards—with their faded ink and thin layer of cobweb—so it isn't long before she finds what she's looking for.

She removes a set of crumpled purple gloves from her pocket. She doesn't move to pull them on. Too much work. Too little time.

She reaches for the item on the shelf, careful to avoid a nasty-looking potted plant. She feels the hair on the back of her neck stand on end as her hand settles against the polished wood of the artifact.

She pauses.

Initially, she thinks maybe she's just jazzed about the break in. All the adrenaline, and whatnot. But the sudden crackle of static electricity in the air tells her otherwise.

She sighs, and moves to raise her hands above her head without being asked.

"Turn around slowly." A firm voice orders. Something jabs her left shoulder blade for emphasis. She knows what it is without looking.

She realizes it's probably a bad idea, but she doesn't let go of the metronome. She puts a sneer in place and turns to greet the barrel of the Tesla rifle. She stares for a minute at the stray blue sparks.

"Well," she says cheerfully. "Crap."

Again, sorry for any sappiness/melodrama/OOC-ness that may occur. This is more serious than I'm used to writing, so apologies on that front. ANYWAYS! It's a little slow…it will gain speed. I think. Until then, feel free to review! Any input is always appreciated. :D

On a random side note: My dad used to work for the fire department with the 'famous' *insert eye roll* centennial Shelby bulb. When I saw that episode of Warehouse, I was like: DUDE! REAL LIFE ARTIFACT!