Chapter Two – A Prison of Her Own Design

"Myka?"

The headache she'd managed to shake after returning from LA had returned with a vengeance. Myka allowed herself a few moments with her head in her hands, blocking out all light from her eyes to give herself some respite. She already knew the cause – another miserable night's sleep. After hours of tossing and turning, she'd managed only a few hours and those had been interrupted by the same nightmare that had plagued her the night before. How many times did she have to watch Helena burn in front of her?

"Myka?"

The voice finally registered and she looked up to see Artie standing in the doorway, staring at her with an even deeper furrow to his already wrinkled brow.

"Sorry Artie, did you say something?" Myka asked.

"Only Good Morning...I thought perhaps you were in some sort of artifact-induced trace with your glassy eyes and vacant stare."

"Oh, it's just a headache. Sorry Artie, Good Morning," Myka said as she reached for the bottle of water sitting in front of her. She popped the top and took a long swallow. "How are you?"

He shrugged and nodded at the same time. "Fine. No need to ask how you are, you look dreadful."

The Warehouse's young tech genius, Claudia Donovan, also briefly looked up from where she sat at her computer on the other side of the office. She nodded quickly in agreement before diving back into her own work. Aside from a nondescript greeting earlier that morning, she hadn't said a word to Myka. Usually she would have demanded to be filled in on all aspects of her and Pete's trip to LA, however Myka suspected that Pete had since warned Claudia not to risk speaking to her on account of her temper. Myka sighed, she was starting to feel incredibly lonely at work. Pete, Claudia...soon even Artie and Trailer would be avoiding her.

"I'll try and look less dreadful in future," Myka promised half-heartedly. She had no desire to elaborate further on her nightmares and the reasons behind them. As well-meaning as Artie was, she wasn't prepared to fill him in on her obsession with H.G. Wells. A quick change of subject was needed. "Artie...the ring we retrieved from LA, you never mentioned what it does?"

"Let me show you instead." Artie beckoned her to follow him with a wave of his hand. "I think you could probably do with a break."

Unused to him being so forthcoming, Myka stood up and dutifully followed him out of the office. He led her into the next room. She frowned slightly, wondering why they had come into the filing room as opposed to the quarantine where newly acquired artifacts were usually kept in preparation for cataloguing and storage. Artie crossed to a small safe in the corner, an item of furniture Myka had not noticed being present in the room the last time she had been in there.

"Is that new?" she asked as Artie crouched in front of it.

"New? Hardly. It's J. Edgar Hoover's safe," Artie explained as he carefully twirled the dial. "Knowing the combination isn't enough. If effectively opens only for its owner. Thankfully since coming into the Warehouse it seems to have recognised me in that capacity." He then gave the safe's handle a firm tug. It remained stuck fast. "Unfortunately it's a little capricious." Finally, after several increasingly violent tugs to the point where Artie was turning red in the face, the safe opened unexpectedly. Artie stumbled backwards, lucky not to fall on his backside.

Myka couldn't suppress a small snort of amusement. "Maybe it just has a sense of humour?"

Artie gave her a level stare as he composed himself. "Myka, it belonged to J. Edgar Hoover, it's incapable of having a sense of humour." He then reached into its depths and withdrew the same box she remembered receiving from Luke Brooker a few days earlier.

"Why is the ring even being kept in a safe?" Myka asked as Artie straightened up. "Surely we should be tagging, cataloguing and finding a permanent home for it in the collection."

Artie raised his finger to make his point. "Ah, but the Warehouse isn't its permanent home. Go on, take the box, open it."

With some amount of trepidation, Myka accepted the box from Artie. She stared down at it for a few moments, before glancing up and realising that Artie was hovering over her with a look of expectation on his face. It only served to make her even more nervous, wondering if this was some sort of trick. The pause lasted only a moment or so, Artie had never been predisposed towards practical jokes so it was highly unlikely he would joke around with an artifact...Pete did not share the same level of restraint . With a quiet intake of breath she slowly flipped the box's lid open. The ring lay nestled inside.

"Why don't you put it on?" he suggested.

Myka raised her eyebrows out of surprise and concern. "Artie, I can't just put it on..."

"Go on, I'm actually giving you permission," Artie urged. "I need you to understand what it does, just in case it ever crops up again in the future."

Myka reluctantly plucked the ring out of its box and cautiously slid it onto her index finger. Despite the fact that it had previously been owned by a man, it fit her perfectly. Even after only a few moments wearing it, the ring felt as though it had always been there. She waited for something out of the ordinary to occur – for her hand to sprout an extra finger, or the ability to see through walls to manifest suddenly. However a minute passed and absolutely nothing happened. She shrugged at Artie but he seemed unperturbed by her lack of reaction. Instead he picked up the first piece of reading material that came to hand – a copy of the Warehouse's filing manual. He flicked it open and held out the first page so Myka could see it.

"Translate the first paragraph into Latin."

"My English to Latin has never been that good," she said modestly. However, as soon as she looked at the page, it seemed as though the words and sentences were translating themselves. With barely a pause, she began speaking aloud in perfect, albeit very formal, Latin. When she reached the end of the paragraph, she had to ask herself whether that had really happened. "Okay, that was weird. Artie, I shouldn't have been able to do that so quickly…"

"But you would have been able to do it," he pointed out.

"Of course," Myka agreed readily. "But it would have taken me several minutes, at the very least." She stared down at the ring innocuously nestled on her finger. "It improves your intelligence?"

"It would seem at first glance...but it's actually far more complex. The artifact takes something that you can do well, in your case the ability to speak Latin, and enhances it. If I had asked you to speak Swahili or dance a foxtrot, it would be of absolutely no use whatsoever."

Myka pouted a little. "How do you know I can't dance a foxtrot?"

"Can you?"

"Well...no..."

"Point made," Artie smiled a little. "So you could see what this little guy does...and how it could also be dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands. Someone with powerful skills of persuasion, or a weapon designer, or someone who happened to be particularly talented at murder."

"That's what we're here for," Myka pointed out. "The whole reason behind the Warehouse is to house artifacts that could potentially be misused if they were allowed to remain out in the wider world."

"The problem is that the ring won't stay in the Warehouse. Unlike most artifacts it cannot remain un-tethered from an individual. We could waste our time cataloguing and housing it, but you'd only go back to that exact location a week or a month later to find that was gone. Better for its wearer to be chosen as opposed to leaving it up to the whims of the artifact itself. From past history, it has the tendency to seek out powerful individuals...Napoleon managed to get his hands on it and he conquered half of Europe."

"Who owned it originally?"

Artie shrugged. "That's the odd thing about this particular artifact's history, it has changed hands so many times that its original owner has been lost. We do have a partial list, Shakespeare…Bach, Jeremy Bentham….Darwin, Renoir. Since the turn of the twentieth century, the ring's ownership has been closely regulated by The Regents."

"If it's that old, then why does it look like a class ring?"

"I think the question you're actually trying to ask is why all class rings look like that one." Artie pointed out. "If you'll look at it closely, you'll find that the writing on it has absolutely nothing to do with any educational institution…and that's a genuine ruby set into the centre."

Myka peered down at the lettering running around the diameter of the ruby. "It's Latin. Non omnis moriar. It means 'not all of me shall die.' I'm still struggling to understand how it ended up in the hands of an actor."

Artie shrugged. "From what Pete tells me, he was pretty good at what he did. Why shouldn't it end up in the hands of an actor?"

Myka shrugged, far be it for her to question the wisdom of The Regents. Perhaps they enjoyed movies with titles like Attack of the Drooling Frogs, or whatever JA's movies had actually been called. "So I guess this particular piece needs a new owner."

"It already has one," Artie pointed out casually. "Or at least, a temporary one."

Myka's eyes widened in shock. "Artie, I'm not looking after an artifact, no matter how useful it is for conjugating Latin verbs. Do I not get any say in the matter?"

Artie looked at her sternly. "You want me to give it to Pete? Enhance his ability to perform feats of gastric eruption?" When Myka winced at the memory of one of Pete's 'gastric eruptions' escaping whilst trapped in an elevator he nodded and continued, "Thought so. Just think of it as another part of the job. Besides, it should come in handy – you'll be an even better version of Myka Bering."

"Sure...thanks, Artie," Myka said uncertainly.

"Just don't take it off."

"Anything else?" Myka asked wearily as she followed him from the room. "Prolonged exposure will cause the growth of chest hair? Sudden fits of verbal diarrhea?"

"Nope, just don't take it off," Artie said quietly as they moved back into their office. "It should only be for a week or so at the most, until The Regents decide on a new Holder – my money's on Lady Gaga."

"Who?" Myka asked. As soon as Artie opened his mouth she shook her head. "On second thoughts, never mind."

"Myka...your headache, do you need anything? A few days off perhaps. You could probably do-"

Myka shook her head quickly to interrupt him and Artie wisely chose not to press the issue. The last thing she needed was more time on her own for self-reflection and torture. Until she had the opportunity to see Helena and work things out between them, she wanted to keep her mind as busy as possible. Still, she was touched by Artie's concern. Usually the gruff Warehouse Director would be the last person to tell her to take time off work.

"I'll be fine, thanks anyway though, Artie," she replied, even managing a smile.

While Artie disappeared in the direction of the stairs leading down to the Warehouse floor, Myka sat back in her chair and picked up her pen. She did not make any attempt to resume her work. Her gaze wandered pensively to the empty chair that Pete had been sitting in for the past few weeks – or rather the chair that Pete had occasionally sat in when he was actually concentrating on work. An unbidden smile crossed her lips at the open bag of cookies left sitting there. With an abrupt decision, she threw down her pen and stood up. Claudia looked up from her computer at the sound of Myka's chair scraping along the floorboards.

"Clauds, do you know where Pete is?" Myka asked.

"No," was her rather terse reply. Almost immediately her eyes went back to her screen and she began typing in rapid, staccato bursts.

Myka's eyes narrowed, unless she was mistaken there was an underlying hint of guilt in the younger woman's voice. "Come on, I know you know where he is."

Claudia stopped typing and turned her gaze to Myka, giving her an appraising stare as though trying to determine her colleague's intentions. "Dude's hiding from you."

Myka winced, she thoroughly deserved that. She nodded dejectedly. "I thought he might be."

"It would be a total betrayal of trust for me to tell you where he's at," Claudia continued warily. She then pursed her lips together thoughtfully before continuing. "But...say if I was convinced you were looking for him purely for the sake of doing some major grovelling, then I might think about it."

As Claudia was talking, Myka had a sudden thought. "He's in the Pete-cave isn't he?"

"No, that's far too obvious," Claudia replied a little too quickly. "Why would he be there? The Pete-cave, ha! What a stupid place to hide."

Notwithstanding the fact that it was Pete they were talking about, Myka did not feel the need to make a comment in response to Claudia's panicked statement. "Thanks," she said, leaving the hacker behind to smack herself over the forehead in anticipation of incurring Pete's wrath.

As she made her way to the end of the motorcycle aisle, Myka realised that she ought to have explained to Claudia that she was indeed seeking Pete out so she could grovel in every sense of the word. However hopefully the younger woman would figure it out when she saw that the partners were back to their jovial old selves. That's slightly optimistic, Bering, she thought to herself. Pete has every right to be mad at you for a really long time. It's Pete though. How much of a grudge can he hold?

Her question was answered when she reached the Pete-cave a few minutes later. The door was open and Pete was inside working on the large whiteboard that he had begun using to help him visualise his thoughts. At the sound of her approaching footsteps, Pete looked over his shoulder. He gave her only a cursory glance before turning his attention back to the board in front of him. Okay, he's still pissed.

"Pete?" Myka ventured quietly. "Do you mind if come in?"

He turned and narrowed his eyes. "It depends, Agent Bering. Are you armed with any throwing implements? Pens? Cream Pies? Knives? On second thought, a cream pie would be really nice." As he continued his eyes glazed over slightly and his face took on a wistful expression.

"Pete, I've come to apologise."

"Lemon meringue or custard is the only really question," Pete continued.

"Pete?" Myka folded her arms across her chest. "I said I want to apologise."

Her partner finally turned his attention away from his daydreams and back to her. "Huh? Did you say something?"

"That I'm here to apologise," Myka repeated for the third time.

Pete nodded sagely. "Yeah, I heard you the first time. I just wanted to hear you say it a few more times, you know, really let the word 'apologise' roll off your tongue. Proceed...and you'd better make it good, Bering."

"To put it bluntly, I've been nothing short of a bitch – to Artie and Claudia as well, but mostly I've been a bitch to you," Myka said with genuine emotion in her voice. Pete was her partner, and she knew for a fact that he would do anything for her. His efforts to cheer her up had come with only the sincerest intentions. "I feel terrible, for the pen incident...but mostly for making you feel as though you have to avoid me and that's the last thing I want. I need you around me, Pete...probably not all the time because we need our alone time to you know, do alone stuff, but I need you."

Pete regarded her with an exceptionally serious expression on his face. Just when Myka thought he wasn't going to accept her apology, his face broke into a grin. "You need me?"

The grin was infectious, Myka's own lips curled upwards almost immediately. "Yeah, I do."

Before she could make a move or say anything further, she was surprised as Pete surged forward and wrapped her in a firm hug. She resisted a little at first, before giving up and just letting herself be hugged. It felt fantastic to just finally let her body relax and fall into someone else's arms – even if that person did smell slightly of burritos.

"I love you, you know that don't you, Mykes?" he asked quietly. "Strictly platonically of course, so sorry, there's no Pete-goodness in your future."

Myka nodded into his shoulder and suppressed a snort of laughter. She wasn't sure what exactly 'Pete goodness' was, but she was quite sure that she didn't want any of it. "Yeah, I do." When she drew back there were unshed tears hovering in her eyes. At that point in time a part of her felt like she could tell him the reason behind her rampaging emotions over the past few weeks. However the sensible part was worried that the conversation would not go down particularly well.

"Pete, I'm in love with H.G. Wells."

"Would this be the same H.G. Wells who tried to destroy the world with a giant fork? Myka, you're just as crazy as she is – since world-ending tendencies are such an attractive quality in a potential girlfriend. And while we're at it, let's just think on the word girlfriend for a moment – you like girls, this is an interesting new development, one we should definitely discuss further."

"Not girls plural, Pete, just one woman."

"One particular hundred and fifty year old woman who happens to be completely cuckoo. Okay, I get that she's hot...really, really hot...and I totally fell for it the first time I saw her...but that was a few minutes before she jammed a tesla under my chin and then stuck us both to the ceiling! Combine that with her giant fork antics and voila! Not good girlfriend material!"

Scrubbing discreetly at her eyes, she walked over to Pete's whiteboard to change the subject. "So, what are you working on? Anything I can help with?"

"I've pretty much finished, come look...it's taken me most of the day," Pete said with an intense level of enthusiasm in his voice. He began pointing to a series of crudely drawn symbols. "So Prometheus – when I saw it I was like seriously, what the fuck is going on here? I mean you've got these humans who go to find these aliens and then a whole lot of weird shit happens that creates capital 'A' aliens. So my chart maps it all out." Pete pointed to the first pictogram, "So space jockey plus gooey black gunk equals normal people. However black gunk plus normal people equals...arrrggggh! Scary people. Scary people plus normal people equals-" Pete pointed to a drawing that sort of resembled a squid-like creature. "- giant squiddlies. Giant squiddlies plus space jockeys equals capital 'A' aliens...Stay away from her, you bitch!" The last part was said as though Pete was trying to attempt a slightly womanly voice, but it only sounded ridiculous. "So, what do you think?"

Myka smiled good-humouredly. "Excellent work, Pete." Okay, I have no idea what kind of Prometheus he's talking about and space jockeys? Giant squiddlies?

"You don't have a clue do you?" Pete asked suspiciously.

"None whatsoever," Myka readily admitted. "Do you want to grab some lunch?"

"Lunch? You betcha! What do you think we've got?"

"You saw Leena pack it this morning, sandwiches, same as always. Although I think I saw cake in there as well."

Feeling as though she could almost push Helena to the back of her mind, Myka and Pete left the Pete-cave in search of their lunch. It was an impossibility of course – the woman haunted both her waking and sleeping moments, but now that she had Pete back she was determined not to push him so far away again.

"I love you too, Pete," she mentioned quietly as they made their way back towards the office.

Pete grinned. "You're not getting any of this sugar though."

"I'm crushed, Pete, truly crushed," Myka laughed, linking her arm within his.

Myka's burgeoning good mood was stifled slightly when Mrs Frederic arrived at the Warehouse later that afternoon. She had come on official Warehouse business of course, but Myka had a Pete-like vibe that she had an answer for her request. Since handing over the letter from her sweaty palm before leaving for LA, the anticipation had quietly smouldered away at the back of her mind. A number of concerns ran through her mind, foremost among them that her request would be denied.

In typical Mrs Frederic style, Myka was made to wait until the very end of the day before the formidable woman stopped beside the desk she was working at. It was her bad luck that Pete, Artie and Claudia all happened to be sharing the same relatively small space. Don't tell me in front of them, Myka fervently thought.

"Can I have a quick word, Myka?" Mrs Frederic asked softly.

Myka was well aware of three pairs of eyes on her back as they made them way into the filing room. She made sure to shut the door securely behind them. Her palms were once again sweaty as she turned to face the Caretaker. Mrs Frederic's expression was as impossible to read as it usually was.

"Unfortunately your request to see Miss Wells has been denied," she said calmly.

Denied? Myka rolled the word around in her mind, trying to come to terms with what it meant. Essentially, there would be no conversation with Helena, no opportunity to fathom some sort of explanation and no final resolution – at least not until The Regents decreed that she could see her. I can't keep going like this, Myka thought desperately. She felt the all too familiar anger rise and despite her better judgment, it tumbled out.

"It's barbaric! You can't just lock Helena away and refuse to let anyone see her!" Myka protested, completely forgetting the fact that it was Mrs Frederic she was practically yelling at. "So she tried to destroy the world, so what, everyone deserves a second chance."

Mrs Frederic stiffened slightly, surprised by the vehemence of Myka's reaction. "Agent Bering, even ignoring the fact that Miss Wells has already been given a second chance as you put it, it was not The Regent's decision to deny your request. Nor was it mine."

Stay calm. Myka frowned. "Then who the hell made it?"

"It was Miss Wells herself." Myka's jaw dropped as Mrs Frederic spoke. "Contrary to your assumptions, she has not been locked away by The Regents. She is however somewhere private and until she changes her mind, I'm afraid I must respect her wish not to see anyone, you included."

Fuck, was Myka's single, eloquent thought. Mrs Frederic was still looking at her expectantly and she managed to mumble "Thank you for your help." With a nod, she left Myka alone to her confusion.

A deep melancholy began to settle over her as soon as the older woman closed the door behind her. Somehow Myka fumbled for a chair and sank gratefully onto it before her legs gave out beneath her. The tears that had threatened to fall earlier whilst talking to Pete were given free reign. You can sit here and cry as long as you need to get that damn woman out of your system, she thought between sobs and hiccups. But afterwards you're going to walk back out there and act as though nothing has happened. However, as the tears continued to flow freely and her nose started running in tandem, Myka realised that she might never be able to leave the filing room.

Helena G. Wells knew that, no matter how much time she spent in the 21st Century, she would never lose her affinity for paper. The promise held in a creamy, crisp sheet of blank paper was infinitely superior to the harsh glare of computer screen with the cursor blinking impertinently. One of the other guests at the Ranch had even shown her his e-reader – a strange little device that purported to be a replacement for actual books. Helena had listened politely as he explained the tiny thing could miraculously hold hundreds of books. If I can't smell it or feel the pages beneath my fingers, then it's not a book, Helena had thought dismissively when he left her alone.

As she sat in the walled courtyard at the Ranch, she absently stroked a sheet of paper in her hand without looking at it. The 'Ranch' wasn't really a ranch at all. She had been in residence for almost two weeks and had not seen a single animal besides the house cat which she avoided on principle. As far as Helena could tell, it was a Regent sanctuary of sorts. The other residents were an eclectic mix of individuals, most of whom did not like to mix with their fellow 'guests.' The fellow with the fake-book thing was recovering from a spell with a particularly addictive artifact. He would often get a furtive look in his eyes, and once he had descended into a screaming heap, pleading to be reunited with what had been taken from him. Thankfully that was the only incident that made her feel as though she was confined to an insane asylum. Another woman was there receiving treatment for an artifact induced illness that conventional medicine could not diagnose or treat. The only thing they had in common was that they were all outsiders of some sort. None seemed to be dangerous in any way – well, no one except her. As far as Helena could tell, she was the only resident who had actually tried to end modern civilisation.

Finally she ceased starring at the heavy brick walls hemming her in and summed up the courage to re-read the letter in her hand. The paper was thick - excellent quality – and the penmanship was painfully neat. She had already read the short note at least a dozen times, but neither the content nor the way it made her feel changed one iota.

H.G., You had to leave so suddenly I didn't get a chance to thank you for saving my life in Hong Kong. It's not exactly the sort of thing you can properly say in a note, so I have put in a request through Mrs Frederic to see you. I sincerely hope that wherever you are has a well-stocked library, Regards, Agent Bering.

That was it. It was so impersonal it could have been written by Pete – albeit probably with atrocious handwriting and spelling mistakes. H.G.? Agent Bering? Helena finally let the note fall to the table in front of her. She was no longer holding it, but she could still see it. Since when did Myka call her H.G.? She loved the way that 'Helena' breezed through Myka's lips. She had been 'Miss Wells' in her own time, and 'H.G.' to most in her second life. However, after a relatively brief period, Myka had called her nothing but Helena. It was the sort of letter you would send to an acquaintance, not to someone who knew you better than anyone else. Her mind wouldn't let her stop at disappointment, she simply had to fathom a reason behind Myka's onset of formality.

What exactly did you expect her to write? Helena asked herself scornfully. That she misses you awfully? That she has come to the realisation that the strange look you get on your face in her presence means that you want to kiss her? You need to let go of these ridiculous notions. Myka Bering is not and will never be attracted to you in the manner you desire.

"You don't have to remain in this dreary courtyard you know," a voice interrupted her thoughts.

Helena turned to see Hamish Byrne, the Ranch's version of Leena, step out of the house and join her in the courtyard. His middle-aged face was creased into an expression of concern.

"I know," Helena replied.

Without making too much of a show of it, she reached out and claimed the note from the table. She folded it neatly and tucked it into the pocket of her trousers. She absently reached out for the tea cup she had forgotten about. It had long since cooled to a barely palatable lukewarm, but she needed something to do with her hands lest Hamish see that they were trembling slightly.

"Was it good news?"

Helena winced, the tea truly was awful. She quickly set it down. "I beg your pardon?"

"The letter, was it good news?"

"Oh...well..." Helena's voice trailed off weakly. It had not really been news at all despite the fact that there were a million things her curious mind wished to know. Had Sykes tampered with any other artifacts in the Warehouse? How was young Claudia coping with the death of Agent Jinks? Was Myka really as good a kisser as she imagined her to be? With those gorgeous lips, she was no doubt extremely talented in that respect...Helena felt an instant heat in her cheeks, no doubt a flush of red was creeping across her pale cheeks. She turned her head away slightly. "It was just a brief communication from the Warehouse, nothing of any consequence."

When she looked up again a minute or so later, Hamish was regarding her with a resigned expression on his face. For a moment he looked up at the walls surrounding them both, and then back to her face.

"I know why you like sitting out here," he commented quietly.

"It is quiet-" Helena began to reply.

He interrupted her with a shake of his head. "No, that's not it at all. The walls, they make you feel like you are in a prison - where you believe you belong."

Uncharacteristically, Helena had nothing to say in reply. She had been at the Ranch for weeks, but it had only taken her a matter of minutes to realise that Hamish was uncanny perceptive. It also meant that she normally avoided private conversations with him for that very reason. It was bad enough that she was privy to her own thoughts; others did not need to be subjected to them as well.

"You know you are free to leave whenever you want." Hamish pointed it out even though Helena was fully aware that she was not a prisoner. "Do not mistake me, you are most welcome at the Ranch for as long as you want to be here, but clearly there is a life...possibly someone, out there for you."

Helena inadvertently offered up a small, sad sigh. "Mr Byrne, usually you are exceptionally intuitive...but on this occasion you are quite mistaken. There is nothing out there for me, not in this time. I do not think that there ever was."