Pete says he noticed it first, but that's a lie. They all noticed it first.
/
He and Steve stumble on the artifact immediately, back at the inn in less than 48 hours, coming in at half past midnight and eating sandwiches side by side in the kitchen with the lights off before passing out facedown on his bed, shoes still on. When he wakes up nine hours later and stumbles back to the kitchen, hunger fully activated, Myka is standing at the sink. She's spreading peanut butter on green apple slices, and not the soupy organic stuff you have to stir with a spoon before you can eat. It's Pete's Skippy extra crunch, and she licks her fingers after each slice.
"I'm still asleep," Pete whispers, "and this is a horrible, horrible nightmare." At the sink, Myka eats peanut butter straight from the spoon, then dips back into the jar for more.
Claudia is sitting at the breakfast nook, frozen in horror. "Where am I," she whispers, and smacks the side of her head with an open palm. "Still here."
"Myka?" Steve walks closer, soft-stepped like he's edging closer to a rabid dog. "Are you… feeling okay?"
"Yes," Myka says, and eats an entire tablespoon of peanut butter in one bite, no apple slice.
"Dear god," Claudia says, "I think she's having a stroke."
"Goo her Steve," Pete hisses. Claudia nods vigorously.
Steve throws them a look. "You missed our run this morning."
"I have an announcement," Myka declares. She sticks the spoon into the peanut butter and thumps it on the counter.
Claudia punches Pete in the arm. "You got her pregnant!" Pete chokes on air and is unable to respond.
"No," Myka says. Pete sucks in a lungful of relief. "I'm taking a personal day," Myka announces, and skips to the stairs.
The three of them sit, flabbergasted. Helena comes in through the back door and rinses her mug. She grimaces at the open peanut butter. "Pete, do refrain from eating directly from the jar," she admonishes.
Pete points at her. "Evil plot. Evil plot!"
Helena sighs. "Hygiene is not an evil plot, Agent Lattimer." She goes back the way she came, passing Abigail on the way in with pastries.
Abigail takes in the scene. "What'd I miss?"
/
They decide to let it lie-they've all dodged out of inventory one way or another, and it's high time Myka joined them in dull-work-avoidance.
The next day Myka texts Pete she's taking another personal day and doesn't punctuate. "I'm not her boyfriend anymore," Pete protests, "she's probably emotionally turbulent, pining from the loss of this hunk of manhood." Claudia makes loud, disbelieving scoff. "Okay fine," Pete capitulates, "but this is girl to girl kind of talk, okay."
"Steve-" Claudia starts.
Steve cuts her off. "Don't even try it. It's beneath you."
"Ugh," Claudia says, "She's probably just ignoring Helena….Bonham Carter," She finishes lamely, as Helena comes into the office, Artie trailing at her heels. "She really hates Helena Bonham Carter."
"Myka's sick," Pete volunteers over the awkward pause. "And she would want you to check on her."
"No," Artie says, and hands them clipboards. Multiple clipboards.
/
The stand outside Artie's office and Claudia looks pointedly at Pete, who looks pointedly back. Helena hands her (five) clipboards to Steve. "I'm going to check on Myka."
/
Pete sees her again an hour later, doing inventory. "How'd it go."
"I do not wish to speak of it," Helena says shortly, and makes a vicious notation.
/
Pete lurks aggressively outside Myka's door with a pint of peppermint. "Ah-ha!" he crows, slightly slurred from sleep, jerking awake as she emerges near midnight. "I got this for you." Myka looks at the ice cream and then back at Pete, faintly accusing. Pete scratches the back of his head. "I ate a little of it." He offers her the half empty plastic container and she rolls her eyes.
"I'm okay, thanks anyway." The syntax of her words, her voice, her manner, it's all ever so slightly off, and Pete trails after her as she saunters down the hallway. She's wearing a coat down to her knees, tied shut, and tall boots. "Claudia and I are going out."
Pete blinks. "Oh, I didn't know…" he trails off as she raps on Claudia's door, quick and impatient. There's a thump and a muffled curse from inside the room. "Does… Claudia know?" The door swings open and Claudia blinks at them, in bright pajamas, a half-chewed pen hanging from the corner of her mouth.
"Yeah," Myka says in a voice that makes it clear she's not been listening to Pete for some time. She nudges Claudia's arm aside and strides into her room. "Don't wait up," she throws over her shoulder, and kicks the door shut in Pete's face with the back of her heel.
It swings back open less than a second later. "What the fuck?" Claudia hisses.
"Just go with it," Pete suggests, "try to figure out what's going on. I've got vibes all over the place."
"Ugh," Claudia says, and shuts the door.
/
Pete falls asleep in the living room, waiting for them, eating old pringles out of the can and chugging the last can of Rolling Rock he'd hidden under the wilty looking lettuce. The front door bangs and he sits up, sending crumbs tumbling to the floor. Myka's giggle rings out, loose and fluttery, and Claudia's cajoling whisper. "Pete!" Myka calls in a loud whisper, and dissolves into laughter again. Claudia is under one of her shoulders, supporting her weight, and she looks unduly relieved to see Pete there, sweating in her short leather jacket, her makeup shining. Myka is wearing a black dress, riding high on her thighs, her curls extra bouncy, eyes extra smoky.
"Holy cow," Pete says, gaping, "is that what you were wearing under the coat?" He takes Myka off Claudia's hands, literally, wrapping an arm around her waist. "He-eyy, Mykes. Have a good girl's night?"
"Oh yeah," Claudia says, laying on sarcasm thick enough to build a house on top of, "I've always wanted to see that scene from Coyote Ugly re-enacted with one of my maternal figures."
Myka hums a snatch of a song, leaning her head on Pete's shoulder. He can smell the tequila on her breath. He leans away discreetly. "So something's definitely wrong."
"Yeah thanks for that analysis, Sherlock," Claudia snaps, and then takes a breath. "Sorry. It's been a stressful evening. At first: hilarious. Then- incredibly alarming. I am not prepared to be the adult figure in this particular partnership."
Myka starts to snore, and Pete fumbles not to drop her. "Okay, let's just… put her away."
"She's not a toy," Claudia rolls her eyes, but she goes up ahead of Steve and holds the door open, helps gets the boots off and throw a blanket over Myka's prone body, crooked and flopped over on the mattress. "Good enough," Claudia declares, brushing her hands off. "Let's deal with this after breakfast."
Pete lingers for a second, watching her sleep. "There's something wrong."
"I know," Claudia says, "we'll figure it out."
/
Myka clomps downstairs in the morning to a makeshift intervention. "I don't understand this reference," Helena says, but sits on the sofa with the rest of them. "And my presence will undoubtedly just make her more hostile."
"But maybe less drunk," Claudia says, and Helena's face contorts like she's trying to look scandalized but is mostly turned on.
Myka is in big sunglasses and sweatpants with the waistband rolled up and then worn low on her hips. Her shirt declares her property of the Secret Service, and it's been cropped to flash her belly button when she moves. Helena spills tea on herself and doesn't appear to notice. Claudia makes a choked, horrified noise. "What up bitches," Myka says, and goes into the kitchen.
There's a moment of prolonged silence.
"Artifact," Artie announces.
"Thank you sweet baby Jesus," Claudia says, and everyone blows a sigh of relief.
"Carbs," Abigail decides, "advil. Coffee." She follows Myka into the kitchen.
Pete points at Artie. "Immaturity, radical personality shift, drinking, irresponsibility, slang, hipster clothing."
Artie side-eyes Claudia pointedly, who gasps in outrage. "J'accuse? I have way more class, Artemis. Way. More."
Artie closes his eyes and sighs to the universe in general. "You have a connection to the warehouse. Use it! You should be able to sense artifact influences around you, and match them to items stored in the warehouse."
"You think it was something already here?" Steve asks. "She could have come into contact with something outside of the Warehouse."
"Statistically improbable," Helena interjects, but then reconsiders, "although with the Warehouse you never can tell."
"Eliminate one before the other," Artie says, "Claudia, close your eyes. Cast out your senses. This is what you've been training for."
Claudia closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, going almost unnaturally still. She exhales, her breath puffing her hair out, and her fingers twitch a little at her sides. "Immaturity," she repeats, her voice dragging slow out of her throat, dreamy, "regression…." her lips close for a long moment, the clock ticking loud in the background, and then part again, something on the tip of her tongue.
Pete's stomach growls loudly and the spell breaks. Claudia's eyes pop open. Helena sighs. Artie glares. Pete grins, sheepish. "Haven't had breakfast yet."
"Regression," Steve says, "we could check the database?"
"It's not complete," Claudia says, "but it's better than nothing. And maybe in the Warehouse I'll be… better at my job."
"I'll go with you," Artie says. "Something's," he twitches his fingers in the air in front of his face, "familiar about this. I need to do some research. You two," he addresses Pete and Helena, "are on Myka watch. If it's an artifact it's likely to escalate. Call us with changes."
/
Myka doesn't seem concerned with her silent escort, chugging three cups of coffee before Abigail cuts her off and then wandering the inn, thumping her shoulders into the edges of the doorways, sighing real big and loud and filling her pockets with pretzel sticks. After an hour she goes to a bookshelf and runs her fingers over all the spines. She plucks a hardcover copy of The Portrait of A Lady and lets it fall open in her hand. She shoots a sly, sideways look at Helena. "I've always admired Henry James," she says conversationally, and when Helena's face contorts she uses the distraction to dart closer, close her fingers around Helena's wrist and pull her close. "I've always liked the smell of a book, just barely open." She slips her fingers around the pages, her nails glinting, and lets them flutter, inhaling deep. "Like promises and dreams." Helena's pupils dilate.
A few steps away, Pete coughs deliberately. Helena pulls away, and Myka tightens her grip, eyes flashing. Then she laughs, dismissive. "Maybe Virginia Woolf instead," she says, turning away. Helena returns the book to the shelf, blinking.
"You okay?"
Helena acts like Pete hadn't spoken. "She still has her love for books. Whatever the artifact is, it isn't repressing." She frowns at the wall. "Regressing. Immaturity." She turns abruptly. "Give me the Farnsworth."
Pete hands it over, keeping an eye on Myka, who's fiddling with the stereo, humming a snatch of song he doesn't know. "Got an idea of what it is?"
Helena waits until Artie's on the other end of the call before continuing. "I think it's age regression, or maturity regression. Her behaviour is… adolescent, but in a way that's very Myka. Still has her love for literature-"
Myka settles on something involving an orchestra, slow and instrumental. "Boring ass music," Pete interjects.
"Narrows it down," Artie says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I was about to call you. There's been a ping."
"I'm staying," Pete calls.
"Steve and I can handle it," says Artie. "it's part of the Faraday collection, I've been hunting it down for the better part of two decades. Mrs. Frederic's here to help. Claudia will call when they know more." He hangs up before Helena can reply.
On the couch, Myka snores gently, like a child passed out at naptime. Pete clicks on the television and turns the volume down, flopping into an armchair.
At the bookshelf, Helena dips her head closer to the spines and takes a soft breath through her nose.
/
Myka wakes up from her nap antsy, walking in circles in the living room and talking to herself. At first it's odd, but manageable. After an hour she's nearly manic, and her mumblings are intelligible, like she's arguing with someone who isn't there. Pete and Helena exchange increasingly worried glances. Just as Pete stands to address it, Myka turns to them, hands on hips. "I have to practice."
"What?" Pete blinks.
Myka glares. "I know it's not a," she huffs, "priority, but it's important to me. I made a commitment, and without practicing I won't be ready for the meet."
"Who are you meeting?" Helena asks, lost, but Pete snaps his fingers.
"You ran track in high school," he says. "And… now you need to practice."
"Yes," Myka snaps. "now that you're caught up, are you coming?"
"Ah," Pete says. He looks at Helena. "Myka runs four miles every day."
/
"This is kinda nice," Pete says twenty minutes later. "I can see why Myka wakes up early."
From the passenger seat, Helena shoots him a look. They're rumbling along at barely more than an idle, the windows rolled down. Myka is running in her easy, coordinated stride just ahead of the car. "I'm not sure we can equate these two activities."
Pete shrugs, taking his hands off the wheel to stretch. "Believe me, Helena, if you have to go jogging, this is the way to do it."
"High school," Helena says, switching tracks neatly. "so she is regressing into her own childhood."
"Yeah," Pete says, "so she thinks she needs to practice for high school sports… but she also knows who we are. Hopefully Claudia's getting something useful."
"I've never been particularly good at waiting," Helena mutters darkly. The sun glints off the hood of the car into her eyes, and she slips big sunglasses on to lesson the glare.
Pete rips a sub in half and offers her a chunk, which she declines. "Aren't those Myka's glasses?"
Helena refuses to blush. "She can have them back when she's not suffering delusions of youth."
/
"Yeah," Claudia says at dinner, coming back without Mrs. Frederic and looking like she's about to fall asleep in her mashed potatoes. "I got nothing. I mean, we tracked down a few artifacts that have effects similar to what Myka's going through, but we gooed the hell out of them. Was there any change?"
"The effects seem to be getting stronger," Helena says. "although she retains enough to know she is supposed to be here, and knows who we are, she is rather… detached from reality."
Pete is staring at Myka, almost without blinking. Claudia kicks him under the table. "Dude, table manners much?"
Pete makes a sharp gesture at her. "No, look at her."
Myka hasn't reacted at all to being the focus of conversation, picking at mixed steamed vegetables and stirring grated cheese into her potatoes. Claudia and Helena look at her for a moment. "She's lacking in chicken?" Claudia volunteers uncertainly.
At that, Myka makes eye contact. "I'm vegetarian."
"Her hair," Claudia says, as Myka goes back to stirring her food instead of eating it.
"Her face," Helena breathes, and now they've said it, it's so obvious. Her skin is softer, paler, her cheeks a little fuller. Her hair is darker, a little bit longer, a little bit curlier. When she moves to reach for the pepper she's ganglier, clumsier, less sure of herself.
"She's de-aging," Pete announces.
Claudia stands. "I think I know-I need to go to the Warehouse and check some notes."
"I'll go with you," Pete says, looking slightly rattled. "I can run and check where the artifacts are stored while you identify it."
/
Dinner alone with Myka is rather awkward. After her declaration of being a vegetarian, Myka says nothing, and appears deep in thought as she eats. Helena isn't exactly overflowing with conversational topics, and as soon as their plates are clean she takes them to the sink. "A book before bed?" she asks, and Myka nods, walking to the bookshelf almost uncertainly. She takes a wrong turn before correcting herself, like she's fuzzy on the layout of the inn, and Helena's stomach flips.
Myka picks The Sleeper Awakes with a shy look back at Helena and a flush in her cheeks.
Helena makes a questioning noise. "Interesting choice."
"I like it," Myka says, "I can't imagine what it would be like, to be asleep for hundreds of years and then wake up to an alien world."
"No?" Helena asks neutrally.
"I think it would be lonely," Myka says quietly, tracing the lines on the cover art.
Suddenly, Helena misses the Myka of just a few hours earlier, brash and bold, teasing and a little seductive. "Not as much as you might think," she says finally, and they sit on the couch until Myka falls asleep, slumped over with her head tilted at an awkward position, the book cradled in her palms, protective even in sleep.
/
Claudia and Pete return three hours later, looking less than victorious. "It has to be it," Claudia is insisting, "nothing else makes sense."
"What?" Helena asks, gesturing at Myka sleeping soft and young on the couch cushions. They take their conversation into the kitchen.
"Ponce de Leon's hat," Claudia says, checking her phone for the correct symptom list. "At first mental regression to youth, then physical youth."
"But we saw it," Pete disagrees, "in the Warehouse, intact, and we gooed it just to be sure. Nothing."
"There are a lot of artifacts in the world," Claudia says, "but there really isn't that much overlap. Trust me, this is the right one. I just don't know how it's affecting her."
"What's the next step," Helena interrupts what sounds like a rehashed disagreement. "the artifact, what's the end result?"
There's a short heavy pause. "Physical youth continues at an accelerated rate," Claudia says, "until infancy."
"I am not ready to raise Myka as my daughter," Pete mutters, "or is she going to full on Back to the Future on us?"
"Don't know," Claudia says, "records didn't say." She rubs her forehead and sighs. "Look, Artie and Steve are back tomorrow, and I can call Mrs. Frederic. Let's just get some sleep. Whatever's gonna happen, we have more than tonight to worry about it."
/
In the morning, Myka is already a young teenager physically and mentally. She must have passed through young adulthood while she slept, which is both a blessing and disheartening. Myka leaving her preteens and entering adolescence is heartbreaking. She wears this big button shirt, dug out of her closet somewhere, and the oversized glasses Myka only wears on Christmas when Claudia won't let her shower and change and put in her contacts before presents and breakfast. She lets her sleeves cover her hands and trips over her own feet, constantly blushing and stuttering. She's shorter too, clearly somewhere in the middle of her big growth spurt, and clumsy because of it. She's timid and anxious that her father will be angry at her for sleeping over without permission, and she chews her nails ragged.
She looks a little awed that Claudia wants to talk to her, and won't even look at Pete. She doesn't seem to know who Helena is, but also doesn't question any of their presences in her life, She knocks over the syrup at breakfast and apologizes profusely before asking who's taking her to school, prompting triple deer in the headlight expressions.
"It's… Saturday," Claudia covers unconvincingly. Myka narrows her eyes at her.
"No it's not," she says, a little fire coming through.
"It's like a Saturday," Helena cuts in quickly, "because it's a teacher work day. Lucky you."
"Oh," Myka says, sounding unconvinced. "I'm going to study, then."
"It's a day off," Pete protests, "you can do something fun instead."
Myka glares at him and looks, for a moment, exactly like herself. "Studying is fun."
"Right," Pete backtracks weakly, "love it, myself." Myka leaves for her room, tripping on every other stair.
"Good save," Claudia says, and offers Helena a fistbump.
Helena reciprocates. "I was a teacher, you know. Sort of."
Pete cuts in. "ETA on everyone else?"
Claudia checks her phone. "Steve says another hour. No word from Frederic."
Myka appears in the doorway, heralded by the sound of elephants falling down the stairs. "I can't find my épée."
Pete is confused. "What are you allergic to?"
"My épée," Myka says again, stressing the last syllable impatiently. Claudia looks similarly blank.
"Of course," Helena says pointedly, "your fencing equipment."
"Yup," Pete says, "that thing you do regularly at this time in your life."
"I'll help you look," Helena says, and Myka clomps back up the stairs. "I'll distract her," she tells Pete and Claudia. "you two work on solutions."
"Roger." Claudia tosses her a salute, cheeky gesture paired with worried eyes.
"Your room is a mess," Helena says, surprised. She supposed she expected Myka to be neat at every point of her life, organized to a fault.
"I was looking for things," Myka says simply. "I'll clean up after." She opens the nightstand and paws through it. "I'm usually very neat," she adds to Helena, sounding anxious again.
"I'm sure you are, darling," Helena assures her, the endearment slipping out. "why don't we-put some of these clothes away, if you've searched the closet thoroughly."
"I'm very thorough," Myka says seriously.
"I believe you," Helena says. She finds some hangers on the floor and straightens them out in her palm. "Hand me some of your jackets on the bed, would you?"
The way Myka rushes to comply makes her chest tight. She passes Helena clothing and talks about books, and Helena can see how bright she is, even so young, her sentence structures, the way she's analyzing the text before she has the words to describe what she's interpreting. An intelligent girl with dark hair and dark eyes, chatting with Helena and doing household chores. The sight of it punches the air out of Helena's lungs. She has always sought out dark haired girls in the crowds, with skin similar to hers, and with the rush of pain has always come the ugly twist of anger, that so many girls like hers are alive but Christina is gone forever. To feel it at the sight of Myka, especially Myka as a child, so excited just to speak with someone who cares what she thinks, is unbearable.
"H.G?" Myka's voice is unsure, but there's concern there, and she sounds like her older self, always carving a piece of herself out to think of Helena. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," Helena says, shaking the feeling away. She picks up one of Myka's blazers off the floor to keep her hands busy and pauses. The right sleeve is shredded all to pieces. It's the jacket she was wearing the day they argued in the gooery, and it niggles at her memory, persistent. She smells apples, a crisp autumn breeze. "Myka, can you finish up here? I need to speak with Pete."
Myka deflates a little. "Okay." She looks disappointed to see Helena go.
"We'll speak again at lunch," Helena assures her, and Myka sighs deeply. Teenage melodrama at its finest, and Helena has to duck her head to hide a smile.
/
"I'm Artie," Pete says, standing in the Warehouse office. "And I have a piece of artifact and I'm not sure what it is yet, so I put it…." he trails off, turning slowly. Helena shuffles through papers on the desk. "In the cabinet!" Pete says triumphantly. He opens it and a cascade of plastic easter eggs tumble out. "Or not. What are these even for?"
"Stop before you hurt yourself," Artie snaps, coming through the door. Steve trails him, tossing a can of soda at Claudia, who immediately snaps it open and drains it, long swallows. Her face screws up.
"Oh god the bubbles. It burns."
Pete closes the cabinet and throws Artie a look. "Who's gonna hurt me? The Easter Bunny?"
Artie ignores him, going to the desk and pulling a drawer open. "Someone get me a static bag."
"It," Steve calls, fishing one out of his jacket pocket. He holds it open and Artie removes a purple stained square of something from a petri dish with gloved fingers. He holds it up to the light.
"That could definitely be part of Poncey Leo's hat," Pete notes.
Artie closes his eyes briefly and powers past it. "Who's with Myka?"
"Helena," Claudia says, and pulls out her phone. "Hey," she says after a moment, "it's me. Standby." She flashes Artie a thumbs up, and he drops the square into the static bag, pinching it shut quickly and flinching back. It sparks, snapping like electricity, and there's a flash of white light.
"Yes!" Pete cheers. "That was it working right? The sound and noise of it working?"
Claudia blinks the flare out of her eyes. "Helena? Did it work?" Her face falls, and she turns away. "Okay."
"It could take some time," Steve offers in a half-suggestion, half-question, "not everything is instantaneous, right?"
"Right," Artie agrees after a minute. Pete punches the wall, a fast explosion of rage that leaves as fast as it came. He leans his other hand on the back of a chair and pulls his little boy in trouble expression out. Plaster falls from the dent in the wall.
"I'll… clean that. Later."
/
Myka hasn't aged any younger, frozen somewhere around 13 or 14, it's a toss up. She could be younger, her height making her appear older, or even older, her face making her seem softer and younger. It's hard to tell, and she's not in any shape to tell them. She calls Claudia Tracy during an argument at breakfast that started with her demands to be on time to trigonometry and ended with her screaming that just because Claudia is the cool one doesn't mean Myka's grades aren't just as important as cheer practice. As a teenager, her ability to hide emotion is shaky at best, and her obvious hurt at being valued less than her sister leaves Claudia swallowing hard and retreating to the Warehouse. At lunch she knocks over a glass, shattering it on the floor, and is stricken with regret. When Artie stoops to help she flinches away and apologizes again, calls him dad. He immediately departs to join Claudia. Pete coaxes her into a game of chess and intentionally moves the pieces incorrectly, making her flush indignantly and scold him mercilessly. Helena sits on a couch and pretends to read Vonnegut. Myka is happy to be all-knowing in a subject, and Pete is happy to have Myka glaring at him again.
At dinner Helena fixes her a plate of spaghetti-sans-meatballs, something in her gut twisting at the motion of setting food in front of a girl with a babyfat smile, but she can't help the press of her hand to Myka's forehead in passing, a motherly gesture that allows her to feel Myka's high temperature. She asks if Myka is feeling alright and Myka blinks at her, eyes glassy. do I know you? she asks, and when Helena recoils she topples from her chair, Steve making a diving catch from the other side. They carry her up to her bed.
Helena at first thought good, better that they don't have to deal with a deteriorating memory on top of everything else, better that she's unconscious while they figure out how to reverse the process. A day later and she revises her opinion: it would have been much better to deal with a suspicious but healthy child than Myka twisting in agony in her bed, sweating through the sheets and mumbling in and out of English. Abigail feeds her children's aspirin for the fever and the pain. The day after that, she stops keeping down any food, no matter how thin or bland, and that night starts vomiting blood. They hook her up to an IV for hydration and put gel ice packs wrapped in towels against her flushed skin.
After she settles, under a sedative and blood still at the corners of her mouth, Artie disappears, finally agreeing to destroy the artifact, dangerous though it is to attempt such a thing, and makes Claudia come with him to help. Abigail drags Pete out for a shower and some food, and Helena takes the first shift at Myka's bedside. She wrings out a washcloth and wipes Myka's face, gentle. When Christina was sick she used to sit at her bedside for hours, humming lullaby songs and checking her temperature with the back of her hand. She finds now that she has forgotten the melody of her daughter's lullabies, and Myka burns against her hand. Myka's cell phone is lying on the bedside table, and Helena finds music preloaded on it, categorized into neat playlists. Most of them seem to revolve around jogging, but there is one labeled Reading, and Helena clicks play.
"I have heard," she says to Myka's restless sleep, "that people unconscious from illnesses can hear when their visitors speak to them. I find I do not entirely believe it." Myka's eyes flutter under shut lids, and Helena takes her hand for a moment. It's limp and covered in a fine sheen of cold sweat. Some song or other plays away in the background, gentle guitars. She puts Myka's hand back on the mattress, unsettled. "I do believe I prefer you angry at me over this." Myka exhales loudly, through her nose, and Helena quiets to watch her. She settles again, and Helena casts about for something else to say. "Ideally," she continues after a moment, "you would not be angry with me at all." She sighs and gives up on original sentiment. Portrait of A Lady is still lying on the desk, and she picks it up. "Henry James, Myka, honestly. You do know how to wound me."
/
Claudia calls near dawn, jolting Helena and Pete out of restless dozes, sprawled in chairs about Myka's room. "Check for recent cuts," she says, "if the artifact entered the bloodstream somehow, it could explain why destroying the hat froze the effects but didn't reverse them."
Pete pulls down the sheet and they look at her. She looks worse than she did when they'd fallen asleep, gaunt and pale, her ribs standing out against her shirt. The clothes hang loosely off her, looking bigger as she gets younger. "She was wearing pants, right?" Pete asks. "That day, in the gooery, she was wearing pants?"
"Yes," Helena agrees, "and a jacket."
"Okay," Pete says, "so…."
"Hands," Helena agrees. She picks Myka's right hand, Pete takes the left. She runs careful fingertips over her arms starting at the inner elbow down to her wrist, tracing Myka's veins as she looks for cuts and punctures. The bones in Myka's wrists jut out sharply against her skin, paper thin and velvet soft.
"Nothing," Pete reports, and leans over the bed further, cradling Myka's jaw and tilting it to the side.
"Here," Helena says, finding a razor thin line in the center of Myka's palm, still red and angry. She takes the phone from Pete. "Yes, there's a cut."
"Okay," Claudia says, "do you have a static bag?"
"Got it," Pete says, fumbling in a pocket. He holds it open and Helena guides Myka's hand in. They lean away and Pete closes it as best he can around her arm. There's a flash of sparks, like a firecracker going off in the middle of a dark road, and they sputter to nothing within seconds, weakly popping before dying out completely. "It's definitely it," he says, loud enough for Claudia to hear. "but the reaction was weird."
"Stand by," Claudia says, and hangs up.
"They're on their way," Helena reports, tossing Pete his phone back.
/
"Okay," Claudia declares, dragging a cooler down the hall, two thumps of her footsteps and then a grunt and the loud catching drag of heavy plastic on carpet fibers. She kicks the door open with the tip of her shoe. "Help, my weak muscles were distracted by muddling thoughts of science. I need a man."
"Ha, ha," Pete says, dry, but he reaches over and helps her carry the cooler inside, lowering to the floor by Myka's bed. "She's worse, Claud."
"This is going to work," Claudia says firmly, and throws the cooler open. Bags of blood, neatly labeled under heavy plastic, line the inside of the container, resting on a bed of medical grade ice packs. She looks at Helena and starts to explain: "It's for-"
"I know what it's for," Helena interrupts. "Are you certain it's compatible?"
"Yes," Claudia says firmly. "This is going to work."
"We're here," Steve calls from the hallway, and enters with Artie on his heels, carrying a largish canvas bag, a rectangle zippered shut, blue with a white cross on the front. Artie heads straight for the bathroom, the faucet creaking on. Steve lays the bag on the bed next to Myka and undoes it, lifting the lid to reveal gauze, sterile pads, IV catheters, sterilized needles, tubing. The water turns off and Artie comes out, hands sheathed in white powder latex.
"I can help," Pete says, "combat medic training, the basics at least." He heads to the bathroom to wash up.
"Food," Claudia says firmly, and takes Helena by the arm.
Helena resists. "I should-"
"Four to six hours," Claudia interrupts. "Food."
"Alright," Helena relents, and follows her to the kitchen.
"Soooo," Claudia drags out, bent over and half-immersed in the fridge, "about you and-Jean-Paul."
Helena blinks. "Who is Jean-Paul?"
"You know," Claudia says, making an awkward gesture in the air behind her. "Pauly Shawn. And…. Pippi Longstocking."
"Nate," Helena says, "and Adelaide." The name drags from her throat, fresh hurt like a scab being ripped off before it's ready. "Has the icebox consumed you?"
Claudia sighs and stands. She offers Helena one of the sandwiches Abigail premakes and leaves clingwrapped in the vegetable drawers, piles of turkey and cheese on rye, ham and mustard on wheat, bacon lettuce tomato with mayonnaise and pickles trapped between wonderbread and layered with potato chips (Pete only). Helena uses her nails to peel the clingwrap apart, grimacing at the texture. She makes it into a crinkly ball and throws it away. "I just don't understand why you and Myka can't work it out."
Helena considers several different responses and discards each of them. "I don't entirely know," she says finally. Claudia looks surprised at her honesty. "These things are… complicated."
Claudia blows out a sigh so hard her bangs flutter. "Well uncomplicate them." Helena starts slightly, surprised at her vehemence. "Life's too short, H.G. Even for you." She unwraps her own sandwich and grimaces. "One of Pete's," she says, and crawls back into the icebox to regain some composure. Helena welcomes the respite, thinking the way Adelaide had cried when she said goodbye. Her sandwich tastes like ash against her tongue and she leaves it in the sink, retreating back upstairs while Claudia's distracted.
/
Myka wakes up warm, like grey early mornings and rainy nights, cocooned under a blanket that smells like home and the Warehouse, green apples and the air freshener candles Leena liked, clean laundry and pine. There's an arm across her waist, a comforting weight, and warm breath huffs across the back of her neck in a soft even rhythm. Myka starts to stretch and has to abort the movement, pain ratcheting in every inch of her body, like she's pulled muscles she didn't even know she had. She makes a muffled noise of pain and the body behind her shifts. She smells soap, plain and sharp, and a hint of something softer.
"Myka," Helena murmurs, and Myka expects her to pull away. Instead she feels the sharp point of Helena's chin on her shoulders, the tickle of Helena's hair on her skin. Helena's voice is heavy with sleep and her hand curls around Myka's waist, slipping under her shirt. "I've missed you."
Myka's whole body hurts and she has the nagging sensation that she may have called Artie daddy. She decides to roll with avoidance and relaxes with a sigh, melting into the mattress and nuzzling her nose into the pillow. "I missed you too," she says like a secret, and when Helena smiles she can feel the curve of her lips on her cheek.
/
"I'm feeling much better," Myka insists.
"Yeah," Pete backs her up, loyal, "she's old and everything."
Myka pins him with a look. "Old?"
"And everything," Pete repeats, taking a small step away from her.
"Inventory," Artie orders. He surveys the pile of nearly fifteen clipboards on a table near his desk. "We need more clipboards."
Myka grimaces. "My head is actually-"
Artie shoves six clipboards into her hands. "Don't. Even. Take Concha Perez with you."
"That's reaching," Myka informs him haughtily, "even for you."
"Who-" Helena starts, but is cut off by a whooping siren, blaring for a second then off for two, blaring again.
"What the hell?" Pete yells, too loud in the two seconds of silence, "what is that?"
Claudia rushes to her computer. "There's something wrong in the gooery control room."
Artie gives Myka the hairy eyeball. "Is there."
"I'll go," Steve volunteers.
"Me too," Myka chimes in.
"Oh no," Artie starts, but Myka cuts him off.
"Has Pete read the manuals?"
Artie stares at her. "Fine. Try not to shrink Steve."
/
"Claudia said artifacts pinging in here would have a," Myka searches for the right word, "...wonky effect on the machines."
"Right," Steve says, "but we fixed that. I mean, you're," he gestures at her, "you again. Big you. Sort of."
"Big me?"
"You know what I mean."
"Yes," Myka says, "but still, this is where I was exposed to the artifact, so it could have thrown everything off balance.
The panel's constant blaring ramps up to a constant, ear-piercing, never-ceasing wail. Myka and Steve slap their hands over their ears. "What do we do?" Steve yells. Myka goes to the control panel and scans the (many) warning messages.
"I'm setting an automatic reboot," Myka shouts, "but the decontamination protocols will create a vacuum before flushing this room with neutralizing agents." She taps the command into the keyboard, and then an override code.
"What?"
The computer beeps twice and the siren cuts short abruptly. "We need to leave," Myka says into the silence, grabbing Steve by the wrist. Her ears are still ringing. "Now."
A politely computerized voice announces, Decontamination protocols commencing in one minute.
They stumble through the heavy door and Myka slams it shut. Steve enters a code into the door panel. "Locked," he reports. He holds his hand up for a hive five and Myka reciprocates, smiling. "Go team."
Myka's Farnsworth blares and she answers it. "Hey. We restarted the system."
Decontamination protocols will commence in thirty seconds
"We will have restarted the system," Myka amends.
"Everything's five by five here," Claudia says, checking several screens at once. "The restart should flush out whatever the problem was."
Artie's face appears, pushing Claudia to the side. "Maybe now when we stick our ungloved hands into Warehouse machines and get cut with artifacts we mention it to someone."
"It's not like I knew what had happened," Myka objects.
"Great excuse," Artie snaps, "would have worked out real well when Pete was enrolling you in kindergarten." He disappears.
"I would have made sure you went to preschool," Steve says.
"Thanks." Myka sticks the Farnsworth into her back pocket. Decontamination protocols will be carried out in twenty seconds echoes around them. "Let's get back." They've taken only a few steps when the air raid siren starts up again.
"Getting real tired of that," Steve shouts.
Myka fumbles with the Farnsworth. "Something's happened," Claudia shouts, and the siren changes from the intermittent whooping to a wall of noise. Myka presses the Farnsworth to her ear, and still can only hear some of what Claudia is bellowing. "restart… interrupted… have to… hear me?"
Helena comes around the corner at a sprint, skidding to a halt in front of them. "Here." She hands Myka her cell phone and doubles over, panting. There's a text from Pete open on the screen. Claud sys restart stoppd hav 2 go back n do again. Another earthquake rumbles under their feet, knocking them off balance. Myka grabs Helena's arm to stabilize her.
"C'mon," Steve says, and he and Helena turn. Something on a shelf catches Myka's eye, the placard falling to the ground with a clatter. Henry Fluess. "Myka!" Steve calls from ahead, and she reaches out quickly to the shelf, tucking a curved circle of glass into her pocket, two and a half inches across.
"I'm here," she says, but it's lost in the wailing alarm. She taps Steve on the arm and they go into control room together, Helena trailing behind. When they slam the door shut the alarm lessens, enough that they can hear each other.
"Try resetting again," Steve suggests, and Myka goes to the panel, enters the commands for a reboot again. It beeps twice and an error message appears, blinking in and out as the machine sputters, throwing out warehouse sparks. It shudders, and becomes boxier, with grey plastic covers and bright blue screen commands.
"The computer is de-aging," Steve says, disbelief coloring his tone, and Myka tamps down the automatic response to argue, to analyze why it would react that way. It does look more like the computers she remembers from college, but she has actually read the manuals from before Claudia's Great Update of '12, and she knows how to use the run command box. Unfortunately, before she can recall the correct string it shudders again and starts to twist. She steps back, the plan that's been niggling at her brain since the alarm came back on forming into something solid and doable.
"I've got this," she says calmly, "when it finishes-" she makes a vague hand gesture at the computer, still shifting- "I'll reboot it and join you guys outside."
Steve frowns, like something she's said pinged his inner polygraph. "Are you sure? If you do it manually, won't it suck all the air out?"
Myka tries to choose her words carefully without making it look like she's doing so. "Yes, but only after I'm safe. There's no point risking all three of us, and I'm the only one who's read all of the manuals, even the outdated ones." Something she intends to rub in Pete's face, who'd teased her when he'd caught her doing it.
Helena is watching her face, something subtle and suspicious in her dark gaze, and Myka sighs. "We don't have time to argue," Steve agrees, and he and Helena go out the door, the alarm hitting them like physical force as they open the door. "We'll wait here and close the door after you come out," Steve practically bellows, but Myka isn't paying close attention, because she's planting two hands between his shoulder blades at the same time she's tangling her foot between his legs and pitching him forward into Helena, leaving them in a surprised, tangled heap three feet outside the door. Before they can recover, Myka pulls the door shut and draws her gun, smashing the butt into the electronics that control the doorlock and then shooting it once, just to be sure.
She returns to the computer, which is now something made of metal and chrome, with big joystick switches and clacky brass keys. Before it can shift again into something involving stones and the first advent of the wheel, she punches in the correct commands. She imagines Steve and Helena might be yelling something, but it's really too loud to tell. Abruptly, the alarm cuts out, and the sudden silence feels ringing.
Decontamination protocols commencing the ceiling announces, and Myka barely has time to pull the artifact she'd grabbed from the shelf out of her pocket and breathe on it, pressing the cold glass to her lips and fogging it with quick sharp breaths.
Knowledge of what the artifact is supposed to do is not one hundred percent comforting in the face of a total vacuum, she finds, and as pipes hiss to life around the room she slides against the wall, falling to her knees as the atmosphere vents around her. She keeps a death grip on the artifact, keeping it pressed to her mouth and pinching her nose with her other hand, curling her body up into a ball for protection. She can't tell if the artifact isn't working properly or if she's hyperventilating too much to get proper oxygen, but her vision is narrowing and her chest feels tight. She realizes she's going to pass out, and she closes her eyes, praying that it's panic and not a miscalculation.
/
Myka wakes up in her bed with a headache and blurry vision. Again. It's a tequila hangover times ten and she groans before she's even aware she's conscious, bringing up a hand to press against her temple and stifling a cry of pain as the movement makes every muscle scream, sore to the extreme.
"Hurts?" Claudia asks, voice overly bright. Myka fumbles to cover her ears, ignoring the protest of her muscles. Claudia bats her hands away with minimal effort. "Good."
Myka opens her eyes fully and regrets the decision immediately, but she keeps them open, screwed up against the bright yellow of her bedside lamp, until they adjust and she can make out Claudia, sitting in a chair beside her bed, feet kicked up on the comforter. "Shoes," she mumbles.
"Yes," Claudia says, not without satisfaction, "my shoes are on the bed." She drags one leg over the other, switching it up, and Myka grumbles again, wordless. "Too bad you had to play hero and now you can't stop me from-" she points her toe down to rub the sole of her shoe against Myka's pillow. "doing this."
"Claudia," Steve chides. He moves by the door, a dark blurry shape. She can't make out his face, but he's radiating hurt.
"Technically," Myka says, her tongue sticking to the syllables, thick and clumsy, "I did not lie to you."
"Technically," Steve mirrors, "me going to tell Pete and Artie you're awake isn't abandoning you with Claudia."
"Hate you," Myka says weakly as he leaves. She turns her head towards Claudia with great effort. "What happened?"
Claudia sits up so she can pick up a pillow and whack Myka across the side with it. "Say it with me Agent Bering," she says, and then punctuates her next words with a thump of cotton against Myka's chest. "-De-comp-pression-sick-ness-is-a! Real! Thing!" She tosses the pillow aside and pokes Myka with her index finger. "And Henry Fluess did not know it was a real thing when his glasses lens became a rebreather artifact."
Myka brings up one hand and bats at her, ineffectual. Decompression sickness, of all things. "I should have thought of that," she mutters.
"Lattimer level," Claudia agrees, heavily disapproving.
"Still would have done it," Myka continues, and Claudia rubs her shoes on the pillow again.
"Artie's gonna kill you," she sing-songs, "you've been out for fifteen hours and he's been working up a lecture the. Whole. Time. Steve actually put in earplugs."
"I fixed it," Myka informs the ceiling petulantly. "I was right. Help me up." Claudia hauls on her obligingly until she's half slumped, half propped against the headboard. Helena is asleep in another chair, mouth hanging open. Myka blinks.
"Cute right?" Claudia stage-whispers. "She's been out for while. Too many hours sitting by your bedside." It's said a little pointedly, and Myka catches Claudia by the fingers.
"I'm okay," she says gently.
Claudia swallows. "But you weren't," she says, breath hitching, and Myka pulls her into a side hug, awkward and painful but necessary all the same. Claudia presses against her, warm and strong with every exhale. "You thought I was a cheerleader," Claudia accuses, voice thick.
"I thought you were my sister," Myka reminds her, soft and cutting all at once, and Claudia slumps into her embrace before pulling back, putting her shields back up. She wipes under her eyes and they both pretend they didn't cry just a little bit.
"I'm gonna leave you two alone for a while," Claudia says, "try not to make your mutual nap of exhaustion too filled with Brokeback tragedy."
Myka rolls her eyes, which, like the hug, hurts but is necessary. "Claudia…."
Claudia silences her with fingers curled around her wrist, her pulse fluttering against Claudia's palm. Her nails are painted bright red to match her hair, with purple decals (also to match her hair). "No," she says, sharp. "Listen to me, Myka Bering. I'm going to be here, don't you understand? I'll be here when you're all gone, and I don't want to live with the weight of your idiot regrets, and your idiot sadness, and the angst and the crying-"
"There will be no crying," Myka says firmly.
Claudia ignores her. "I will not live my life at Wuthering Heights, do you hear me?"
Myka smiles despite herself. "I hear you," she says, faintly teasing, "you'll make a great Regent, Claud."
Claudia flushes, but when Myka moves to pull away she hooks their fingers together, suddenly serious. "Myka," she murmurs, and her eyes have that otherworldly edge Frederic's sometimes do. "Aren't you tired of being not unhappy?"
/
Myka sleeps for another twelve hours and wakes up with a mouth full of cotton, dry and sour. There's a weight at her back and across her hip, a body spooning her that's already familiar. "This has happened before," she says, her voice low and rough.
"Far be it for me not to capitalize on your near death encounters," Helena says from behind her. She sounds like she's been awake for a while. "I'm an opportunistic woman."
"I see," Myka murmurs. Really, she should kick Helena out and get up. She needs a shower and some food. And to brush her teeth. She really needs to brush her teeth.
"Claudia said an odd thing to me this morning," Helena continues, "before I came to see you."
Myka lets her brain slip into something resembling a doze. "Claudia says many odd things."
"Most of them aren't about brooding bastard anti-heroes," Helena says.
"Mmm," Myka responds, "as long as you don't wander the moors calling my name."
"I think not," Helena says, faintly offended. "As if we would ever regress to Bronte, darling."
Myka sighs. "You're a snob, you know that?"
Helena huffs. "Says the woman who reads Henry James." And then Myka's turning on her back, Helena straddling her waist. Her hair is mussed badly from lying down, one side sticking up and tangled, and there's sleep in the corner of her eyes.
Myka blinks at her. "You really don't like him, do you?"
Helens waves her hand like she's physically transitioning them into the next conversation. "We need to talk."
Outside it starts to rain, pitter patter against the glass window, pinging off the roof. "Not today," Myka says. She starts to sit up and Helena pushes her shoulders back down.
"Enough," Helena says. "I am going to talk, and then you may talk, and then maybe I'll talk again. And then you can do as you see fit. I'm not one to pine."
"Please," Myka snaps. "if anyone's Heathcliff you are." She rolls her hips sharply, trying to buck Helena off, but she's still a little weak. Helena's breath catches. Her eyes are dark and wide, her weight on Myka's hips makes something flutter in Myka's belly.
"Nate and Adelaide," Helena starts, biting her lip. She falls silent and tries to start again. "Christina-" her voice catches, and Myka reaches up to gather Helena against her, comforting.
"Not now," she says. "in a minute, but not now."
Helena rests their foreheads together. "Not now," she agrees.
"I need to brush my teeth," Myka tells her.
Helena smiles, her fingers tangling in Myka's curls. Myka lets her hands fall to Helena's waist, tracing her ribs. Helena's breath puffs against Myka's lips. "In a minute," she promises, and they kiss gently, Helena's hair around their faces like a curtain.