(~Phase Two: Waxing Crescent~)
The year was 1894 and the smell is what assaulted me first, and then came the visual devastation. As Mr. Wolcott and I stepped off the landing platform of our vessel, I felt as if I couldn't possibly be more useless. We could have prevented what happened had we been properly informed of the 'curiosity'. But with such an innocuous artifact in appearance alone still in play, even more destruction could be wrought in another place at any given moment, because I have doubts that the person in possession of the artifact is unaware of its clear lethal nature. The destructor is a simple bell; one a person would find on a farm animal so that it would be easier to locate in a large area is the culprit.
This place was once a sleepy fishing village on the Huangpu and Yangtze Rivers that has begun to teem with life and signs of progress, now the bustling city of Shanghai is nothing more than ruination.
"This is almost a stretch of the imagination H.G." Wolcott says after his own silent musing I'm sure. "I wouldn't believe a mere bell to be capable of this, if I weren't here and seeing this with my own eyes."
I look around and try not to breathe too deeply, because if I were to my lungs will begin to protest in the acrid laced air, which still smells hot and almost flammable.
"I would be inclined to agree with your assessment had the facts not been so plain and the knowledge that this Mrs. O'Leary's cowbell is responsible for the great fire of London in 1666 and also Chicago in 1871."
"So after twenty-three years it made its way across the ocean again to wreak havoc?" Mr. Wolcott says more to himself than me. I nod my accent and we make our way towards the heart of the city, side by side and at the ready.
As Mr. Wolcott and I walk down the streets I pause by the haggard remains of small building. Curiosity pulling me forward, I walk over the threshold; where once I'm sure stood a grand door. My eyes take in what the remnants, which isn't much, but then I notice a whole set of tools and equipment that lends to the fact that this was once a barber shop. As I move further with cautious steps, the crunch under my feet of burned wood which splinters as I move, and subtly echo in the shell of the hollowed out domicile. To my amazement, a single white apron draped over the back of a chair managed to survive, but several old style scissors and razors weren't so fortunate.
Then I notice a clean area on the floor, approximately the circumference of a standing person, so I kneel down in the area devoid of signs of a fire and run my fingers over the sooty floor, and with a gentle swipe the once highly polished floor emerges under my fingertips. I listen to Agent Wolcott's impatient footfalls as he enters, so I close my eyes against the noise and imagine a livid fire; one crawling over rooftops, leaving a trail of liquid red and blue, because at its heart a fire and its roaring flames burn an incandescent blue. I also see with clarity every narrow side street and alley we passed on our way here, and the corpses of bicycles that lay askew on the streets; the rubber burned off and the frame twisted and snarled from the intensity of the flames.
"H.G. we should be pressing on." Mr. Wolcott says quietly.
I rise from my crouched position and face my partner, "This was the source of the inferno Wolly. We are in the right place."
"You are certain?"
"Quite." I say while rubbing my two of my now soot covered fingers together, and then I spot movement out of my peripheral vision.
"Perhaps just an onlooker?" My partner says, his keen eyes following mine.
On any other day I might have been inclined to agree, but I know better, the truth being glaringly obvious in the destruction we are surrounded by.
"I think not Wolcott."
"Shall we give chase then?" Wolcott says knowingly while pushing his hat tighter down on his head.
I chuckle, "After you."
"Ladies first." Wolly says and I smirk at him in passing as we begin to move out of the dwelling and take off down separate streets at an accelerated pace.
Knowing this district of Shanghai the way that I do, I take the adjacent street the assailant is fleeing on as Wolly takes up pursuit directly behind him. With my advanced scientific knowledge I feel the adrenaline surge into my bloodstream, and Lord knows I love feeling this alive; it's all I have left. Breathing in through my nose I run faster, my boots making very little noise as I maneuver through the rubble. I chance a quick glance and see the man several meters ahead of Wolcott; his white shirt quickly flashing by in-between the spaces of each dwelling that is barely standing. Up ahead I notice one building still intact, and with dusk upon us; the dimming quality of the sun is fading fast and if I were eluding someone I would head to shelter.
The man who in my mind has the artifact does in fact think as I do, and he runs right into the storefront; disappearing into its shroud of darkness.
Trying to corner the assailant I instruct Wolcott to circle the building and cover the back entrance to what remains of an old Yanzhi Store that managed to hold itself firm against the fire. I take out my Tesla and have it at the ready, as I too cross the blackened threshold. My eyes adjust to the twilight and I look at the walls; which are coated in soot and painted over in ash, how they creak and groan, no doubt still cooling from the inferno, so discerning any extra movements is increasingly difficult. The sound of my Tesla's current sizzling in my grasp only adds to the din and then I catch a glimpse of a figure off to my left; I pursue carefully and quietly, haphazardly taking giant steps over the burnt flooring.
"Don't come closer!" The sound of firm yet broken English carries throughout the room and I stop; the floor groaning and protesting under my feet. "The bell erase you in seconds!"
A thrill courses through my veins making me feel more alive even under the threat of imminent death. So I boldly side-step into the shadows cast along the wall behind the front counter of the Chinese drugstore; merely estimating where the voice originated from. Avoiding the small bottles along the wall of various tonics and herbs that are quite miraculously unscathed, I continue on until the room opens into a large back room. Then I hear muffled steps advancing and out of the darkness my attacker strikes.
But with my Kenpo training I'm always prepared; my teacher's most basic instruction was for one to be a warrior you must be ferocious on the outside, but calm and tranquil on the inside.
So with ease I lean away from his heavy handed strike; still being mindful of the compromised flooring beneath my feet, and pivot back to land a hard kick with my right just under his left knee. And with a satisfying grunt his staggers but doesn't fall, instead he counters with a looping punch with his left arm, which I counter by punching down with my right while simultaneously landing a elbow strike to his ribcage. A rush of air leaves his lungs, but I know my punch was softened by his solid abdominals that I made contact with. In a manner of seconds he moves to kick me in my right kidney, but I quickly execute a right universal block over my right knee and block his kick. Then he attempts a left front crossover, but I'm prepared for that as well.
"You had great Sensei." My attacker says, his breathing only moderately labored as he moves to strike again.
However I move to avoid his intended blow to my stomach and grab the outside of his left elbow; using his momentum to turn him until his back facing my front, and then I immediately land a right front crossover sweep to the back of his already compromised knee once more. The loud crunch and an accompanying cry of pain echo through the building, the man falls to the floor which gives squeal of its own and I'm reminded of the unsafe surroundings. And then in the next breath I hear loud and hurried footsteps.
"H.G. are you alright!" Wolcott's nearing and elevated voice distracts me, but thankfully the man on the floor hasn't managed to move very far from where he fell.
Once more I carefully step to avoid any unsafe planks and start to call out to Wolcott, but before I can get a word out I feel a sharp pain in my ribs and I fall to the floor due to an abrupt lack of oxygen.
"You fight good, but today not your day, Ms. Wells." The man says, and I try to move but it feels like I have more than a few fractured ribs.
Taking stock of my opponent who caught me off guard and bested me, I look up at him: He's about my height, lithe but muscled, dark pants with scuffed boots, and I try to see his face but the stinging in my eyes and the darkness are making it impossible. I inhale painfully as I'm struck by the notion that I don't find it the least bit surprising this man knows of me, even though nothing else seems to register properly in this moment.
I close my eyes momentarily from the sharp pain as my breath finally returns to me, upon opening them I realize of course the man is gone; despite a fractured kneecap of his own courtesy of me. I attempt to stand as Wolly bursts into the room, a few seconds too late but nonetheless my partner through thick and thin. Suddenly I hear a loud screech and groan reverberate through the room, and then it's as if the world slows to a crawl and I can only watch in abstract awe as the burnt floorboards give under Wolcott's weight and he disappears from my sight all too quickly.
I cry out in two kinds of pain and drag myself to my feet, and without a care for my own safety I move towards the hole in the floor and look down. Apparently the building had a deep subbasement used for extra storage and drying; I listen for any movement but I hear none, so I call out Wolcott's name into the darkness below but he doesn't answer. He will never answer me when I call out to him, ever again.
The next morning in the aftermath of it all, I surmised it was all for naught, even as I was ushered back to my awaiting vessel. Wolcott's body already stored for the voyage home; my shame walking alongside me like an invisible man, and my bandaged torso smarting all the way. I don't think anyone but the Regents will have a care for my failure and the loss of an Agent. The establishment had already begun to take stock of the casualties here, though I imagine all that could possibly be left was no more than ash.
"And that good doctor was one of my last missions before I was bronzed." I say with a only a small waver in my voice, as I look up from my tightly clasped hands. "I also failed to acquire the chain of Torquemada, even after it was tasked to me after my lapse in sound judgment in Shanghai." I pause because some part of me still can't believe how freely these confessions are pouring out, but maybe it's time; all dams do burst and spill their contents eventually.
Dr. Mason looks up from his notes in what I now know is a silent urge to continue.
"I felt I was in a downward spiral of epic creation, so shortly thereafter I took leave from the Warehouse in search of a dangerous artifact; not sanctioned by the Regents of course, after my partner Wolcott was...lost."
"Do you still see it as a failure in not being able to acquire the bell artifact?" Dr. Mason says evenly. "And does it weigh heavily on you in your assumed responsibility in Mr. Wolcott's death?"
I sigh, "Both for a while, but obviously my part in Wolly's death is just one of the many demons I carry with me daily." I say with resignation, while crossing my legs thus changing my previously slouched position on the settee.
"Would it strike you as too obvious if I said Mr. Wolcott's death cannot be squarely placed on your shoulders?"
I remain silent because I know the next part in his sentence, and right as it may very well be, it still feels wrong to me.
"Also would it be too obvious to say he knew the risks when accepting the job as an Agent of Warehouse Twelve?"
Choosing to remain silent I nod my ascent, because I know any vocal protests will not gain any merit. This is just a topic the good doctor and I will simply have to agree to disagree on, because accepting my irreversible shortcomings is something I can and have lived with, no matter how unhealthy another might deem it.
"Actually Dr. Mason the one thing that helped me gain some measure of acceptance in the matter, was when I learned from Mrs. Frederic that the bell was never used again, nor had it resurfaced in over a hundred years not until it strangely came to be in the possession of Walter Sykes."
Dr. Mason stirs in his chair minutely, "It seems Mr. Sykes had quite a fascination with you, or I suppose more accurately all things Warehouse related."
"I fear it was both." I say sullenly and under my breath.
Resigning myself to take a break from the topic I rise up off the settee and move towards my therapists bookshelves; his eyes follow me. So much about a person I feel can be gleaned from their choices in literature. Unsurprisingly many texts on his profession line the shelves, but also works from names I've come to appreciate, both new and old: Jean-Paul Sartre, Friedrich Nietzsche, Mary Wollstonecraft and then I notice a section of names I have only begun to recognize as people after my own heart. Works from Robert A. Heinlein, Isaac Asimov, Ambrose Bierce, Edgar Rice Burroughs and a long gone friend L. Frank Baum who dreamed up a land called 'Oz', and then I notice a new personal favorite-Ray Bradbury. I remove the fine leather bound volume and upon opening it I notice it's a first edition signed by the author himself.
"Have you read any of Mr. Bradbury's writings, Helena?"
I smile and place the book back on the shelf in its clearly reserved spot, "Yes I have."
It feels good to smile and be amusing to someone other than myself. I reached that conclusion because the good doctor knew precisely what book I had in hand without even hardly turning in his seat to watch me.
"I greatly enjoyed Fahrenheit 451 as well, because it foretold so many things that have come to pass in this modern world, for example watching people on large screens mounted on the wall, which rings true to those large flat screen televisions people have now." I say while walking back to the settee and sit down in my usual spot. "And also how books were ruthlessly abridged for altered to accommodate persons with a short attention span in his novel, which I feel is all too frighteningly accurate when considering some books published in this day and age."
"Very clever and I agree completely." Dr. Mason says animatedly, which makes me smile and very much like Myka here is another person I can have an intelligent discussion on literature with. "I personally feel that Bradbury drew the book burning from the Nazi's and the repression of outdated writings he used in his story from the 'Great Purge' of Stalin's campaign."
Of course I'm aware of the events he is referring to, which was just a few of the many events that once I learned occurred while I was inert, only disheartened me further on this failed utopia I awoke to.
"You know in comparison to Mr. Bradbury and myself, I must say he saw things as they were designed to play out." I say all the while marveling at how my thoughts once ran, and how jaded I quickly became in terms of hope. "Whereas, I wanted only the best of things to bear fruit and reshape the world."
But even in the face of my disappointment I know all too well that each person has their limits and the limit of heartache I could withstand was exceeded; her death, and my choices thereafter did not provide the balm to remedy my greatest loss.
"Helena, I wish the world would've lived up to your expectations." Dr. Mason says solemnly. "It may still, because I see mankind as an ever evolving experiment in progress."
I smirk and clasp my hands together on my lap, and looking up I notice the time and for once I'm eager to finish my purge for this session, a difficult one as it where, so I choose to shift the subject back.
"Are you aware Dr. Mason that for a time I spoke with a doctor much like yourself?"
He smiles, "Yes, because believe it or not Helena your file that I have in hand does go back that far."
I laugh lightly, but it quickly fades. "But by the time it was recommended that I seek council I was past helping, so in the autumn of 1899 after my complete time travel failure in Paris I elected to be bronzed; I had just turned thirty three years old."
Dr. Mason shifts in his chair once more and crosses his legs, and I notice a small smile playing on his face. "You know Helena I've come to look forward to our sessions, and in the three months since your breakthrough I have learned so much, and not to abandon todays main goal despite both of us stalling, but you have yet to tell me the most basic bit." I smirk and mindlessly shrug and he continues. "Tell me about your Victorian self and Mr. Wolcott."
The rapid shift in topic forces the most natural progression in me; dark gives way to light, and I smile fondly as the memories come flooding back.
"Well, I refused to be reduced to wearing Edwardian fashions; when not entertaining in my own home mind you, but those damned S-curve corsets I determined would be the death of me." I say in jest and Dr. Mason chuckles lightly. "A woman could hardly breathe without gasping for air, and since the brain requires oxygen to speak I often regarded that corset as another cloaked attempt by men to silence women."
Dr. Mason shakes his head and makes a few notes on a small pad of paper, "Not really the answer I hoped for, but charmingly entertaining nonetheless."
I roll my eyes, "To my knowledge it is well documented on what everyday life was like for women in my time, granted I was more well off than most, but it was no different for me mostly. My apprenticeship and eventual promotion to full agent at Warehouse Twelve was the only exception to my life." At Dr. Mason's silence, save for the sound of his scribbles on paper and I continue. "Mr. Wolcott or Wolly as I often called him became a surrogate brother to me. He was so very sweet to me; a nervous chap, and perhaps a bit too in awe of my growing legend at the Warehouse."
My smile holds while recalling Wolly's rather stiff posture, but playful smile and bright blue eyes. Wolly's been gone a long time, but yet I can still recall the sound of his voice. I inhale deeply and look directly at Dr. Mason, only to find him looking at me with a small smile of his own lighting up his features.
"See that wasn't too difficult now was it?" Dr. Mason says playfully condescending while looking into my eyes; having long since abandoned his notes, and then I look down noticing my small journal sitting atop his notes. "Now coming back to the hard stuff; your time spent in bronze, I asked you to write about your imprisonment." Dr. Mason says carefully. "And I trust in the spirit of your therapy you elected to be...unguarded in your feelings?"
The reserved and redundant quality of his question is disarming, so I nod and gesture for him to freely open my journal that is resting on his lap. I observe the way his long fingers open the book to peruse the pages with quiet rusting sounds, until he finds my latest entry about the topic at hand. I turn my head and gaze out the large window in his office, the view is modest; tops of trees and the overcast skies are the only coloring to this day's palette.
So I watch the clouds, some darker than others mixing in with lighter ones, and I find it perplexing that such things can coalesce into one being to change and emerge like a butterfly from a cocoon. I close my eyes and recall my words that Dr. Mason is silently reading, the bluntness in those words are none to be taken lightly and the feelings they evoke are ones that I have never shared with another living soul.
Bronze Confinement, 1899-2010...
I had never been privy to a darkness like this, and it's suffocating in fact. Rather like a dark night where there is no moon or stars, and the only sounds are your own imagined slow breathing and the only company was my thoughts which never ceased and they gradually decayed to the frayed ends of what remained of my sanity. Imagine struggling against invisible restraints; granted I asked for my imprisonment, although as my fate unfolded I realized far too late what I allowed to be done to my person.
I had no real inkling what madness was until I was encased in bronze. Silent screams against blackened infinity, fists clenched in defiance with no room to lash out. Looking back now, I would have been slightly loss tortured had I been confined to a small windowless room; at least then I could've moved. So with each passing day, month, year I lost the sensation of my limbs; they were still there, but I began to understand the 'phantom limb' scenario with a renewed perspective.
Even the most involuntary yet essential function such as breathing ceased to be relevant. You see in my immobile state my chest could not rise and collapse as it were meant too, but yet I lived on by the grace of an ancient artifact. So day by day, I stared at the backs of my eyelids for what slowly became over a century and the only warm thought I had in my shell that provided me with any solace was my plan. It was my anchor, my tether the last place I could call home and a poor substitute at that.
I had it all down to a science before I became a living monument to true torture, but I ignored the variables that could occur should I ever be freed from my captivity and rationalized I would be at some point in the future. But I couldn't have fathomed such a person as Myka Bering existing, then becoming an important part of my life and thus making me; quite willingly I might add, thwart my best laid plans.
Freedom was grand and my first breaths hurt, my limbs felt numb, but the muscle memory returned with each passing minute, and as I ambled out into the blinding sun I felt it was my rebirth.
Soundtrack:"Hangmans Body Count" by Volbeat, "Adrenaline" by Gavin Rossdale, "Happy?" by God Lives Underwater & "Everyday Is Exactly The Same" by Nine Inch Nails
Parting Words:I never saw H.G. as a 'villain', because she always struck me as more the tragic character type. I hope you liked the action scene/Wolly cameo (I did try my best) and the dialogue between H.G. and my OC.
