Warehouse 13
High School AU
Eventual Bering and Wells

TW: alludes to bullying

Chapter Two

It was the first time Myka had been in the basement of the school. She held her pass tightly in case a staff member tried to challenge her.

The kids who sneak into the lower level typically come back with descriptions of dark, damp rooms; narrow hallways full of cobwebs; rickety stairways where one stair always give way beneath their feet.

Of course, they all lied.

The basement was just as clean and structurally sound as the rest of the building, and the only thing that prevented it from being just as bright was the lack of windows.

Auxiliary room 13 was the last room in the basement, its double doors set in the wall at the end of the hallway. One of the doors was propped open, and despite the logic that told her otherwise, it all felt slightly horror movie-esque.

She stopped in the open doorway and looked around the room.

It was large, only slightly smaller than the secondary gym it was most likely built under.

One of the back corners was lined with desks holding a mix of the most modern and the most steam punk computers Myka had seen. Sparring mats took up the other back corner, where the walls were lined with mirrors. The mats were lined on one side by a few punching bags and weight racks.

To her right stood a group of normal school desks and a few aisles of bookcases. To her left was a small area with comfortable looking chairs, a rug, and a few tables.

A man stood in front of one of the tables with his back to her. A junior girl she vaguely recognized sat in one of the chairs, a large book in her lap.

Myka knocked to get their attention, and stepped into the room.

The man turned to her, a cookie in his hand. He looked her up and down, sizing her up, then nodded.

"Good, you're here," he said. "Now if the boy could get here."

"Calm down, old man," a voice said from behind Myka. "I'm here."

She turned around to meet dark eyes. The boy stared back. Then they both turned to the man and spoke at the same time.

"No."

"Absolutely not."

"I can't work with her."

"I refuse to be partnered with such a…"

"Enough," the man called, trying to stop their protests.

The boy turned to Myka. "Such a what?"

"Imbecilic child."

"Better than being a stuck up bitch."

"Really? Because at least I'll go places after graduating."

"Hey, I am going places!"

"Yeah, to flip burgers."

"Enough!" the man repeated, his voice louder. They turned to him. "I'm guessing you two know each other."

"We've met," Myka deadpanned.

"Well, you better get over whatever's between you, because for the next month, you have no choice. So, Myka Bering, Peter Lattimer, I am Artie Neilson. Welcome to Auxiliary Room 13."

-oOo-

"Come on, Bering, you can't seriously be reading it," Lattimer groaned.

Myka ignored him and continued her task. She was almost finished so it would be pointless to stop. Besides, it had information on their training, and that was something they should know.

He watched her for a few more moments. "Just sign the damn thing."

"Always read what you're going to sign," she said without stopping. "If you had read it, you would know that by doing this, you can't do sports anymore."

"What?" His papers rustled as he searched through the document.

Myka snorted and finished reading. She turned to him. He was glaring at her.

"It doesn't say that."

She shrugged and scrawled her name on the signature line.

"But, it does say," she said, "that you will have to work with your coach to figure the schedule out. Two sessions here will be later in the night to accommodate practices, but the other two cannot be missed."

He looked between her and the paper. "You remember all that?"

"I have a good memory," she simply said.

"So you can tell me everything it says? So there's no reason for me to read it. I can just ask you."

She opened her mouth to rebuff his suggestion, but Artie cut her off.

"Done?" he asked as he took the papers. He quickly checked their signatures then put another sheet of paper on their desks.

"More?" Lattimer whined.

"Confidentiality agreement," Artie said. "You can't tell anyone what you're actually learning here, and if I find out that you do, you're out."

"You serious?" Lattimer questioned. Myka rolled her eyes and started to read through the text.

"Yes," Artie said.

Lattimer groaned and signed the paper. Artie picked it up, then turned to Myka. She quickly finished reading, signed it, and handed it to him.

-oOo-

Myka fought back a groan and tightened her arms around her torso. The wind bit through her hoodie and the snow crunched under her vans.

Lattimer. Of every person they could have chosen to be her potential partner, they had to choose Peter Lattimer. The boy was immature, offensive, and the entire school heralded him as the next star quarterback.

Beyond that he had hated her, for no reason, since he had first moved to Jefferson in fourth grade. He was one of group that had ensured she hated her life.

The training itself seemed interesting. They would be focusing on the basic knowledge – mainly history by the sound of it – and physical – maintaining a standard of fitness, different types of combat – aspects first, then would move onto other stuff. What other stuff, she still didn't know because Artie had refused to tell them. Still, she was intrigued.

If only she wasn't partnered with Lattimer.

-oOo-

Pete absently sang to the music coming from the radio as he moved through the kitchen. He pulled a box of cereal from the pantry, and grabbed the milk as he walked past the fridge.

"How did everything go this afternoon?"

Pete looked up at his mom as she walked in. He shrugged as he started to pour the cereal.

"It's alright. I'm going to learn some cool stuff…"

"But?"

"The girl they partnered me with is a major pain."

"Maybe you'll learn to like each other."

He scoffed around a mouthful of Lucky Charms. "Right." He grabbed his bowl and left the kitchen.

Jane watched him leave, then sighed.

"I hope you're right about this, Irene."

-oOo-

Myka ran a hand through her hair as she hunched over her textbook. It was nearing midnight and she still had five questions left in her AP European history assignment, and a worksheet for Trig.

She had worked in the store from the time she had gotten home until dinner. Then, after dinner, she had organized the backroom and restocked the shelves.

She didn't even start her homework until ten.

She jotted down an answer – Maximilien de Robespierre; born 1758, died 1794 – then pushed the work away. She crossed her arms on her desk and laid her head down. She shut her eyes.

When she opened them again, an hour had passed.

Cursing under her breath, she sat up, rubbed her temples and went back to work.

Hopefully it would all be worth it.